


Cloaks, Daggers, and Cigarette Smoke

by Hornswaggler



Series: under cover of the night [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: (because I am the worst), Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Slow Burn, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 120,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornswaggler/pseuds/Hornswaggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacon has plenty of experience with synths - he's shot down gen-ones, nearly been killed by Coursers, helped dozens escape the Commonwealth over the years - so he'd like to think he knows what he's doing.</p><p>Valentine was a prototype. He doesn't fit the old molds or the new ones.<br/>And worst of all, he keeps calling Deacon out on every single lie.</p><p>When it comes to Nick Valentine, he might not entirely know what he's doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. how many roads have we wandered

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, here is [Carly in-game](http://68.media.tumblr.com/01541f682cbeef1cf3a69a28304a096a/tumblr_onlrwztIfS1tu1q3to1_250.png) and [here is how tall she is](http://68.media.tumblr.com/8c6f0a3cd5fd68f64d9082a5a2be5c77/tumblr_inline_on7o2xvzpH1r9765s_500.png) compared to Deacon, who I estimate around 5'6".
> 
> Some creative liberties are taken, but this will follow the game plot most of the time.
> 
> Welcome to the rarepair hell.

The logical part of him considered it absolutely idiotic to start travelling with this woman who seemed to attract trouble like a magnet. It should have been some kind of clue the first time they worked together and Carly had strolled into the old Switchboard without a single hesitation, taking down the gen-ones like each one of them had been personally responsible for everything that had gone wrong.

Should have been a clue she was a little crazy, more than a little vengeful, something that warned him away.

But hell, it wasn’t like his life was sane to begin with. So when this woman wearing a battered vault suit had stumbled into the Commonwealth and immediately made a name for herself, Deacon had paid attention. He slipped into the bigger towns, watched as she made connections, and picked up enough of her story to piece some things together. She stormed into Headquarters one day, now with battered merc’s gear, and Deacon found himself vouching for her, found himself surprised as always when Dez listened. She did seem to support what they were doing - proved to be a big help on missions very quickly - but no one could really tell if she was in it to help them or helping them solely because they were a pretty outspoken enemy of the Institute.

Tagging along then made sense; he was doing a bit of recon, what he was good at, to see where this old vault dweller really stood, and whether she might prove to be a threat if someone more useful offered their help. That had been a while ago, though. Now...well, Deacon would be lying if he said he wasn’t having some kind of fun with all this. Carly did seem to genuinely want to help the synths they came across, at least. She also seemed to be ready to fight the entirety of the Commonwealth with her bare hands to get her son back.

And she certainly had interesting friends.

Deacon had been in Diamond City plenty of times. Most of it was trade, maybe a little bit of investigating, and always with a different look. No one in the city actually knew him, even if he knew of almost everyone that lived there. It was a bit of a surprise to find that Carly had already found allies in most of the big names.

The first time they dropped into the city together, Deacon stayed up by the entrance while Carly sold whatever things of value they’d picked up and stocked up on what necessities could be afforded. It wasn’t a long visit, but she came back with a lead from the lady who wrote the paper that sometimes circulated around Boston.

Apparently she had made friends with Piper. He didn’t know of anyone else who had managed that.

The second time it was late. They had vague plans to sleep at the Dugout for the night, hope a couple of the bruises faded, and maybe get a real meal in for once. Deacon had scrounged up a new outfit from some abandoned house in Lexington, commandeered a pair of Carly’s sunglasses, and pulled some winter hat down over his head for the occasion. He was sure there were already rumors of someone travelling with the already-famed vault dweller, but he didn’t need any of those rumors to be accurate.

Most of the shops were closing when they got in -- probably meant the food would have to wait until morning -- but apparently not everyone had actually turned in yet.

“Lookin’ a little worse for wear there, Blue.” Piper’s voice was pretty unmistakeable; Deacon had heard her shouting at someone or other almost every time he’d been in town. She was leaning up against one of the poles outside her office, press hat a little crooked on her head. “Pick a fight with those Gunners down the road or something?”

“A mirelurk, actually,” Carly said, grimacing as she poked at one of the more obvious welts on one arm. The worse wounds had been mostly healed already with a stimpak, but there wasn’t much point wasting those on bruises. “Son of a bitch just popped up onto the bridge, nearly shoved me off in the process. Anything blow up while I’ve been gone?”

Piper shrugged. “No more than usual.” Her eyes suddenly centered on Deacon and he had to resist the urge to immediately duck out of the conversation. “Who’s this?”

Carly glanced back at him and they seemed to communicate a quick and silent agreement because she turned back and offered a vague, “A friend. He’s been helping me...find some answers.”

The other woman grunted, giving Deacon a considering look. “You’ve got weird taste in friends.”

“I’m friends with you, aren’t I?” Carly pointed out.

“Exactly my point. Speaking of,” Piper added, straightening and jerking her head toward one of the city’s alleys, “Nick wanted to see you when you’ve got time. Think he might’ve dug something up.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll drop in to see you before we leave.”

Piper nodded, turning to push her door open and giving a wave over her shoulder. “Stay out of trouble, Blue.”

“I never do.”

The door shut and Carly turned back to him with a light sigh. “You can head to the Dugout if you want,” she said. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

“This Nick Valentine?” Deacon asked, and she nodded. “Only ever heard his name before; I’ll tag along.”

She gave a sort of noncommittal shrug and led the way between buildings to an even smaller alley that had Valentine’s glowing sign above it. He’d seen it in passing plenty of times, but the detective was always out of town or busy with a client, and Deacon had never had any need to meet him.

Carly walked straight in, unsurprisingly. She’d nearly gotten shot twice for doing that just in the time he’d known her. The young woman sitting inside didn’t seem to mind, though, and was calling for Valentine by the time Deacon had shut the door behind them. He took up his usual position leaning against the back wall, taking note of the layout of the place and things that might be of use if the situation went south. Habit these days, as unlikely as it was here.

He didn’t focus entirely on Valentine until the detective had taken a seat behind his desk and was rummaging through a box on top of it. It was the metal hand that got his attention first. The tattered synthetic skin and glowing yellow eyes were pretty good hints, too.

Well, this was one he hadn’t heard about.

“It might not be much,” Valentine was saying, sliding the file he pulled across the desk. “Couple of name drops and a possible location, but that’s about the best we can get with this case.”

“I’ll take whatever might help,” Carly said, picking up the folder and flipping through it. “I appreciate it, Nick, really.”

Deacon could tell the instant Valentine spotted him -- he could practically see those yellow eyes focus across the room -- and there was a quick flash of what might have been recognition.

Most people around town had seen him at one point or another. Most just didn’t actually _know_ they had seen him. He wondered vaguely if Valentine had some kind of enhanced ability to recognize faces - it’d certainly help in his line of work - and if so, whether they had run into each other since Deacon’s last face-swap.

Carly turned before he could consider it further and before Valentine could inevitably ask who the stranger in his office was. She tucked the file under her arm and shifted the weight of the bag on her shoulders.

“We’ll head south in the morning,” she said. “Just hope Vadim’s got spaces, I _hate_ sleeping on those couches…”

“What, you’re getting a room?” Valentine asked, and when Carly nodded he scoffed. “Nah, c’mon, I got space, and I’m sure you could do to save the caps.”

“I wouldn’t put you out,” she said  immediately, but the detective waved his metal hand impatiently.

“I’m a synth, I don’t actually need to sleep. Planning on going through some backed-up cases anyway, and we’ve got the spare mattress in storage. Won’t be a problem.”

Carly hesitated, seeming to weigh the options for a moment before she looked back at Deacon. “I’ll still get you that room if you prefer.”

“Hey, why waste the caps?” He definitely wanted a chance to talk with Valentine anyway. This just made it a hell of a lot easier. “I’m sticking with you, boss.”

She nodded briskly, shooting a grin back at Valentine. “You’re an old sap, Nick.”

He shrugged, shoving the box of files underneath his desk. “Guilty as charged. Now get some sleep before you pass out, will ya?”

Carly grunted, rubbing a hand over her face and shooting one last look at Deacon before half-climbing half-pulling her way up the narrow staircase in the corner. She’d obviously been here often enough. He wasn’t sure whether he should be flattered or somewhat annoyed that she trusted him to manage by himself.

Valentine’s assistant had collected her bag and slipped out the door just as Deacon peeled himself off the wall, and he folded his arms across his chest, surveying the room and then the synth that was now watching him carefully.

“So,” Valentine said, his metal hand pulling a slightly battered package of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, “where’d she pick you up?”

“Goodneighbor.” The lie came immediately and easily, and he made sure to piece together a skeleton of a story just in case it was needed. He’d have to mention it to Carly at some point, make sure they didn’t accidentally contradict each other.

“Is that where I’ve seen you before?”

“Seems likely.”

Valentine grunted, and the flash of the lighter he’d flicked on cast irregular shadows across the more tattered edges of his face. “So you’re what, mercenary? Tagging along for the caps?”

Deacon shrugged. “Just looking for a little adventure.”

Glowing yellow eyes considered him carefully. Deacon could see small trails of smoke slipping out from between the exposed hinges and gears - did models this late have lungs for the smoke to ruin? - before Valentine turned away with a light scoff.

“That’s bullshit,” he said. “But if she trusts you, I guess that says something. Mattress is in the back if you planned on actually sleeping.”

Deacon didn’t let himself stare for too long, didn’t let his expression shift as he maneuvered between the stacks of boxes to the small back storage room. He was used to people calling him on lies, but it was people like Dez and Carrington, even Drummer Boy once in a while. Never someone he’d just met. Never with that much certainty.

The lights turning off behind him made him glance around. He could see Valentine sit down behind his desk and pull a box of papers toward him. There was a very faint glow around him, brightest by his eyes and accentuating the small pinprick of light from his cigarette. It had been a long time since Deacon had met a synth that didn’t look entirely human - at least one that wasn’t trying to shoot him. It spoke of his reputation that Valentine’s name was well known around the Boston area, but people didn’t think it relevant to mention that the detective wasn’t human.

It took a quick roll of his shoulders to shrug off the thoughts and Deacon tugged the mattress down from where it had been leaning against the wall. Wasn’t his problem at the moment. Unless Valentine had some issues with the Institute - and judging by the way he was out in the open, it seemed unlikely - he didn’t need to do anything.

Besides, they were leaving in the morning. Right now he could just be grateful for somewhere to sleep that wasn’t digging rocks into his back.

 

 


	2. shine a little light on everything around you

Diamond City certainly still had its charms, especially in the early morning when the sunlight started peeking over the edge of the wall. Deacon was sure that he would be very appreciative of something like that if he were in any way a morning person. 

It wasn’t that he had trouble functioning - he had run ops on an hour of sleep before and done so flawlessly. He just hated the actual process of waking up.  


Maybe Carly had been hoping he would be slightly more cooperative when he was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Maybe that’s why she brought up her plan first thing in the morning. It definitely succeeded in getting him focused.  


“You want to _bring him_?” he hissed, well aware that Valentine could almost certainly hear them from across the room. Carly didn’t look up from where she was taking inventory of her bag.  


“I think he could help. He knows the area better than I do…”  


“I live here too, you know,” Deacon reminded her and got a slightly scathing look in response.  


“He knows the people better than either of us,” she said. “They’ll talk to him.”  


It was aggravating when she was right. Deacon could navigate alleys and listen to a whole conversation without being noticed, but it was much more likely for the people that lived in Boston to talk to someone they knew than to some drifter, and Valentine definitely had a reputation.  


Carly could apparently sense his wariness and set the bottle of pills she was holding down with a sigh. “I’ve traveled with Nick before,” she said. “He’s a good guy. Handy in a fight, too.” After a brief consideration she shot Deacon a look and added, “Known him longer than I have you.”  


“Yeah, and I’m a terrible choice, really.” He twisted to look over his shoulder at the synth who was still apparently engrossed in his paperwork. “You made friends with the mayor in Goodneighbor - I wouldn’t say your judgement of people is flawless.”  


The look she shot him told him that she had no idea how he knew that particular piece of information, but unsurprisingly she didn’t question it. It did earn him a smack to the shoulder and Deacon gave a melodramatic wince which Carly ignored.  


“I need Nick’s help.” Her tone held no room for argument this time and she returned the items strewn across the floor to her bag. “Need yours, too. You don’t have to give him your life story, just...cooperate.”  


He wanted to warn her that they’d have to drop all mentions of the Railroad from every conversation, that they’d have to figure out some other reason for him to be around, but the fact that Valentine was still in the same room made that seem counterintuitive. Instead Deacon forced all the tension out of his shoulders, pulled on a grin along with his hat, and swung his own bag onto his shoulders.  


“I always cooperate.”  


“That’s bullshit,” Valentine’s voice called from across the room, nearly making Deacon jump. He looked over to catch the tail-end of a smirk before the synth turned away. Carly once again ignored the despairing look Deacon shot her, focusing on strapping on her pistol’s holster and slinging a slightly battered hunting rifle over one shoulder.  


“I’m dropping in to talk to Piper,” she said, glancing between both of them. “Market should be open by now if you wanted to grab anything before we head out, say…” she looked down at the Pip-Boy on her arm quickly, “fifteen minutes?”  


“Good by me, boss,” Deacon said. He was out the door a few seconds later, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and securing his own gun across his chest.  


The Diamond City market was always a little too open for his tastes, especially with the stands looming up in every direction. Too many possible sniper perches tucked away in the shadows and not nearly enough guards to spot anyone trying it. He allowed himself a quick but careful scan of the visible walls before strolling into the circle and heading right for the weapons shop.  


He’d bought from Arturo a number of times. The man had yet to make any indication that he recognized Deacon, which meant he was doing something right. It took a bit of rummaging for caps and loose bullets to get the mismatched ones traded in for something that fit his rifle and a quick stop by the doctor’s stand for an extra roll of gauze. It was rare to make it through a day without some kind of injury, and they were careful to ration the stimpaks for real emergencies since neither of them could afford to buy more at this point.  


Valentine was already by the entrance when Deacon made his way over. The detective wasn’t carrying much: one revolver, a small bag on his shoulder, and the trenchcoat and hat Deacon had yet to see him remove.  


“You know,” Valentine said, leaning against the stairs’ railing and looking out over the city, “for being one of the only people around here to having a working clock, she’s never been good at being punctual.”  


Deacon let himself laugh. “Ah, just offer food as an incentive. Always right on time for that.”  


That coaxed out a grin. It also got Valentine to shift his focus over to Deacon, which was less ideal.  


“Said you two met in Goodneighbor, huh?” he asked, and Deacon shrugged, taking the time to set his bag down and hop up to sit on the rail.  


“She was passing through, I didn’t have anything better to be doing, and the adventure sounded fun.”  


“You getting paid?”  


Damn, he was persistent. Deacon shrugged again, all too aware of how intently the yellow eyes seemed to bore into him. 

“Tend to split whatever scrap we dig up. I take the bullets that fit my gun, she takes the ones that fit hers. It’s pay enough.”  


Well, look at that. An actual truth.  


Partially, at least.  


Valentine considered that for a few moments before he grunted. “So you got a name?”  


“I’ve heard some pretty creative ideas,” Deacon said. “Not many are repeatable in polite company, so...Deacon’s fine.”  


The hand Valentine stuck out - the one that still had skin, he noted - was a little unexpected, but Deacon accepted it, not surprised when the synth’s grip was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked. He was somewhat surprised when Valentine held on and maintained eye contact that might have been creepy to someone who hadn’t faced Coursers multiple times. The meaning behind it was pretty obvious, though.  


Deacon let himself grin a little. “You don’t trust me.”  


“Trust is earned,” Valentine said. “Anyway, it’s like you said, Carly has been known for some...slightly lax judgement when it comes to people.”  


They dropped the handshake and Deacon folded his arms across his chest, hooking his feet in the bottom rung of the railing so he could lean back. “Well there is that. Who’s to say I should trust you, if that’s the case?”  


“I’m surprised you agreed to come with me along in the first place, to be honest.” Valentine paused as another resident came up the stairs, exchanging a quick familiar nod even as Deacon ducked his head to keep his face shadowed. “People around here, they know me,” he continued, “but most of the Commonwealth is still terrified of the very notion of synths.”  


“Well I try to keep an open mind,” Deacon said. “Besides, had a synth save my ass from a super mutant once. Ran off before I could get his autograph. You’re the first I’ve actually spoken to, but --”  


“Bullshit.” That managed to catch Deacon a bit off guard and he blinked, barely suppressing a frustrated frown. Not that he was about to actually admit that he kept getting caught, but how the hell did he keep getting caught? Valentine wasn’t looking at him anymore, eyes focused down the staircase. Deacon could spot Carly approaching out of the corner of his eye, but he let himself raise a skeptical eyebrow in Valentine’s direction.  


“Is it?”  


“It is.” The detective stood straight, his voice dropping a bit as he added, “If you lie to her as often as you seem to be lying to me, I think there’s good reason not to trust you.”  


The conversation was effectively ended there when Carly reached them, a new bag of what Deacon assumed were papers over her shoulder. She’d taken up helping Piper get the Publik Occurrence a wider readership, and people tended to listen when it was being vouched for by the famed vault dweller.  


Deacon hopped off the rail and scooped up his gear, adjusting his gun to where it was easiest to grab on short notice. Valentine seemed to have put the entire exchange out of mind for now - or at least he wasn’t bringing it up as he and Carly chatted on the way up to the main entrance - but Deacon allowed himself some slightly-suspicious observing.  


Valentine certainly didn’t seem like Institute, but none of them did from the start. He wasn’t a gen-three, not with gears and frames exposed like that, but the cognition was obviously a big step up from gen-ones.  


Somewhere in between, maybe, a model they tried and then scrapped. He could also be a decoy, sent to gather intel on the biggest settlement in Boston and now on the woman who was going after the Institute with every weapon she could get access to.  


Of course that meant that if there were any indication Valentine was still Institute, Carly would have absolutely nothing to do with him other than try to get information. She may trust the wrong people sometimes, but she was far from naive.  


He was consciously aware when Valentine fell in step beside him, but it didn’t fully register until he spoke.  


“So where were you from before Goodneighbor?”  


Deacon shot him what he hoped was an exasperated look and dammit, Valentine was smirking like he knew the lie was coming and knew that _Deacon_ knew he’d call him on it. Still, it was worth a shot.  


“South of here, a few days hike to DC.”  


“That’s bullshit."


	3. what would you say if I took those words away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially on break! I'm still the slowest person ever, but y'know.
> 
> I'm starting to piece together some kind of timeline for this, so hopefully things will actually move along a little faster. Maybe.
> 
> I don't actually know what I'm trying to say here, so yeah, have a chapter! And have a lovely Christmas/whatever you might celebrate, eat lots of food, avoid the radiation, etc.

Deacon had to admit after the first day or two, Valentine _was_ proving fairly useful. It was important, especially in the Railroad’s line of work, to ignore what people said and pay attention to what they did. That was how Deacon handled everyone he came in contact with, and so far it had worked out as well as anything could in the apocalypse.

Carly, for example, was one of those whose ideals were pretty clear even if her ways of achieving them tended to fluctuate. She was looking for her son. He’d believed that after countless times seeing her eyes linger on some scorched toy or broken crib. She wanted to help the Railroad. That had been shown in their little jaunt into the Switchboard, but even more so in the way she talked to H2 when they had been smuggling him out of Lexington. She wanted to resolve this conflict as peacefully as she could. That much…

Well, everyone lied sometimes.

Valentine was harder to crack. Not only was he much more in control of his reactions, but he had been in the Commonwealth longer. He knew how to keep things close to his chest, and obviously still didn’t trust Deacon.

The problem was, there wasn’t really a set goal where the detective was concerned. Deacon didn’t deal with people directly too often, and even less so for extended periods of time. When he did, there was always an end-game in mind -- maybe recruit them as a tourist, maybe get intel, find weaknesses to exploit -- but always something that took a specific amount of time. He didn’t like this uncertainty of being stuck with someone that he wasn’t actively trying to get something out of.

Carly he didn’t mind. He knew what she was trying to do in the long run, and somewhere along the way he’d decided to help with that. It didn’t hurt that finding a way into the Institute had been one of the Railroads main goals for years.

She had been good about not bringing up the Railroad when Valentine was anywhere nearby, despite her obvious exasperation about Deacon’s so-called “paranoia.”

“We can trust Nick,” she hissed at him for probably the fifth time while Valentine was investigating some other run-down house. “Look at him, if anyone would be sympathetic to your cause, it’d be him. “

“I trust the synths that _we_ pull out,” Deacon said plainly. “The ones that we _know_ want out. The Institute slaughters whole communities to get one rogue synth back; if he’s not with them, why have they just let him live out in the open like that?”

“He’s helping me find a way in to stop them, same as you.”

“And how do you know they’re not being warned of your arrival?” Deacon allowed a slightly sardonic grin when she didn’t have an answer to that and he tossed the woman a small box of ammo he’d found in the back of a dresser drawer. “Not saying you should dump the guy right now, but that blind faith is gonna get you killed. Not everyone is as upstanding as I am.”

Carly scoffed at that, turning and heading back down the stairs. Once she was out of sight Deacon let the grin slip away and sighed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses for a moment before forcing his shoulders straight again and following her down.

They were chasing ghosts. That much, at least, he was familiar with. Carly had filled him in on the gaps, how she and Valentine had used the Memory Den to find out what they could from Kellogg’s brain, (he’d known that much, of course, having been there himself) how the Institute somehow teleported their synths in and out, (that much was news, something Dez would very much like to know) and how Kellog had been sent after a scientist named Virgil who had somehow actually escaped the Institute without getting turned to ash.

She was looking for Virgil. The trail had gone cold and Valentine had gone back to Diamond City to work it. It was some time after that that Carly had found the Railroad, and while Deacon was a little surprised she hadn’t told them about Kellogg’s memories, he was also a little proud that she hadn’t immediately trusted some group hiding in a basement with those sorts of secrets.

Valentine had apparently gotten a lead, and that’s what had sent all three of them traipsing into the southern half of Boston. For the first few days Deacon had vaguely hoped that they would find what they were looking for quickly and the detective would decide to head back home.

Neither of those seemed likely at the moment.

Carly was leaning out of the ruined front door when he got back to ground level and she gave a sharp whistle into the street before ducking back inside. Valentine always turned his hearing up a few notches when they split, and sure enough Deacon saw him through a window emerging from another house a few down the road.

It was getting dark enough that they came to an unspoken consensus to call it a day while there was still some semblance of shelter. Carly dragged the mattress downstairs and fought the usual few minutes with Valentine trying to convince him that she could take watch.

“You need the sleep,” Valentine told her, as he always did. “I don’t.”

She relented, as she always did. Carly never had much issue falling asleep; she shrugged off her coat and the shoulder guard on her armor, left the rest on, and sprawled across the mattress with little concern for the suspicious looking stains on the fabric. Deacon wondered how long it had taken her to manage that.

In his defense, he did try to sleep. He had claimed the motheaten couch and spent a good hour staring up at the holes in the ceiling before giving up the effort. He was normally good at sleeping any time the chance arose, but tonight he was still too high-strung, waiting for some attack to come bursting through the door.

He needed a smoke.

Carly didn’t even shift when he stood with a few popping joints. Habit had him putting his sunglasses back on - something she’d teased him for more than once - and Deacon tried to keep the floorboards from squeaking too loudly when he went to the door.

Valentine was sitting on the front porch, back leaning against the doorframe. He didn’t look up, but after a few seconds of Deacon fishing fruitlessly through his pockets he held up a small silver lighter. Deacon kept his hesitation short, but didn’t manage to be rid of it entirely before he took the lighter with what he hoped was a slightly grateful grunt.

“Carly’s never been a fan of the smell,” Valentine said, and Deacon nodded.

“Why d’you think I’m out here?” He kept his eyes on the road, propping one foot up against the wall as he leaned back. “I wouldn’t think a bit of smoke is worse than…” he gestured vaguely at the world in general, “all this.”

Valentine just shrugged, pulling a cigarette out himself and easily catching the lighter that was tossed back at him. “Bright out here or something?”

Deacon glanced down with a small smirk. “Sensitive eyes.”

“Bullshit.” Valentine paused to take a slow drag from his cigarette, and once again Deacon noticed the smoke trailing out from the holes in his neck and the exposed metal pieces. Could he actually get any kind of nicotine addiction, or was it just habit? “Odd thing to lie about, isn’t it? Doesn’t seem to matter.”

Deacon didn’t bother to answer that, looking back out at the road. A few pops of gunfire echoed around the buildings, but Valentine didn’t seem concerned so they probably weren’t too close.

He was right, really. The Commonwealth was a strange enough place, it wouldn’t be too odd to admit that he just didn’t like people seeing his eyes. But that would be admitting something. Not something he was eager to do. Not like that much thought went into it.

They were silent for a few minutes. The gunfire had stopped, marking either victory or death for its owner. Valentine smoked his cigarette right down to the filter - not like he could burn the metal hand, of course - before putting it out and flicking the rest over the side of the porch. He seemed to be scanning the area; Deacon could just see the yellow eyes flicking from side to side, their soft glow more obvious in the dark.

“You lie a lot,” Valentine said casually. Deacon didn’t bother looking down and certainly didn’t bother to answer. It didn’t seem like Valentine expected him to anyway, because he continued a moment later. “People do that out here, no doubt about that. It helps being good at spotting it, saved my skin more than once. But you lie about things that don’t seem to matter.”

Well, technically he wasn’t wrong. Deacon tapped the end of his cigarette out against the house wall and rolled it between his fingers absently. “You still don’t trust me.”

“You’ll shoot people trying to shoot us, that’s obvious enough. That’s why it doesn’t make much sense to lie about sunglasses.”

“What,” Deacon scoffed, “you listen to people’s heart rates or something?”

“I’m a detective,” Valentine said. “That’s my job. If I can’t spot a lie or two, I ought to go back to sweeping floors.”

“Sweeping floors, huh?”

“We all gotta start somewhere.” Valentine paused as another few shots rang out, a little closer this time. He seemed to zone out for another few seconds, probably listening for any signs of immediate danger. “No,” he said once he came back with a blink, “I don’t trust you. Doesn’t mean I’m about to let you get shot by some Raider. Not unless you give me some reason to.”

Deacon grunted. At least he was straightforward about it. “Fair enough. Guess I can pay you the same courtesy.”

“I’d expect nothing less. Still don’t think that requires all the lies.”

Well, he was nothing if not dedicated. Deacon restrained a sigh, letting his eyes roll quickly. “Thought you said they didn’t matter.”

“They shouldn’t,” Valentine said, “which is why it doesn’t make sense to bother. And if those come as easily as they seem, that means the ones that actually matter probably do, too. And that might be a problem.”

“Everyone’s got secrets, Valentine.”

“Oh, sure they do. I do, Carly does, and you obviously do. It’s just a matter of whether or not those secrets are gonna get either of us killed.”

Deacon glanced back toward the living room, listening for a moment to make sure Carly was still asleep. “If I’d wanted to kill either of you,” he said, “I’ve had plenty of opportunities already.”

Valentine made a somewhat derisive sound. “I might be an older model, but I think…” He trailed off, gaze going distant again, and then his eyes narrowed suddenly. “Shit…”

“What?” Deacon stepped back as Valentine pushed himself to his feet. His hand went to his shoulder instinctively before remembering that his rifle was still next to the couch. Valentine shot him a look that clearly called for quiet and Deacon followed him back through the door into the living room, dropping his voice as he repeated, “ _What?_ ” in a low hiss.

Valentine waved an impatient hand and crouched down beside Carly. She woke with a sharp intake of breath when he touched her shoulder but stayed silent when Valentine pressed a metal finger to his lips.

“Synths,” he finally whispered.

The silence in the room seemed to fall even heavier after that. Carly had her hand on her gun in a second and Deacon dropped quickly below the level of the busted-out window, pulling his rifle toward him by the strap. The sudden caution made sense now. It also made sense that it had taken this long to hear them approaching. Without Valentine, it was unlikely there would’ve been any warning at all.

“How many?” Carly asked, barely loud enough hear. Valentine pulled a quick face and held up four fingers with a shrug that said it could be completely off. Even artificial ears had their limits. Carly eyed her rifle’s magazine and patted her coat pocket before grimacing. “Stay low.”

Deacon settled himself right under the window, his gun’s barrel propped up right on the sill ready to swing up if needed. He could just see into the street; the dim moonlight was casting odd shadows across the rubble, and he still couldn’t hear or see any signs of the synths. He did hear Carly come up behind him and shot a glance back.

She was tense -- far more than she ever was with Raiders, and he supposed that was for good reason. Even if they hadn't been working for the group who had taken her son, synths were dangerous in the best of situations. Even with their success in the Switchboard, Carly still always seemed most on edge when dealing with Institute synths. It made sense.

He was just starting to wonder if Valentine had heard wrong when the first one rounded the corner. Gen-ones. Six of them, all toting regulation Institute rifles. Maybe not a huge threat, but not something that he was eager to charge into. Glory would’ve loved a fight like that -- though maybe not, he realized, considering her dislike for taking out even lower model synths.

The patrol seemed to have a destination in mind. They weren’t moving quickly, but they also weren’t actively searching the area, which meant they probably weren’t actively looking for the three holed up in the house. Deacon tried to think of some reason for them to be here, ran through a mental list of the Railroad’s agents anywhere nearby and tried to remember if there were any runs scheduled that might have been found out. He hadn’t been in HQ for more than a week now, and it got easy to lose track of what was going on with everyone else without regular visits.

One of the synths suddenly turned to look toward their window and Deacon could feel Carly’s breath catch more than he could hear it. It wasn’t fear. He knew her better than that, he’d seen enough synths get their heads blown off with a vengeance in the Switchboard, and even a few on the road since. She wasn’t afraid of them, but she knew better than to pick an unnecessary fight in the middle of the night, and Deacon knew how frustrating it was to hang back.

These synths may not personally have her son, but they were built by the people that did.

They may not have personally shot her husband, but they were controlled by the people who had hired the man who did.

Despite the fact that she was currently wearing the armor of the man physically responsible for all of that, Deacon knew that even that kind of revenge didn't make seeing the Institute's soldiers across the street any easier.

Eventually the patrol passed, and after a few cautionary minutes Deacon let himself breathe normally again. Carly followed suit, leaning back against the couch, and Valentine stepped away from the wall he had been pressed against, slipping his pistol back into its holster.

“Well,” Deacon said, leaning his rifle against the wall with a grin, “that was fun.”

Valentine seemed to be holding back a glare but he ignored that, leaning out the door for a moment. “Don’t usually see them this far south,” he muttered. “Wonder what they’re after.”

“Souls of the innocent?” Deacon suggested, and that did get him a glare.

Carly ran a hand over her face wearily, pushing back some of the black hair that was escaping the messy knot she’d tied it up in. “They’ve been stepping things up since I took out Kellogg,” she said. “Probably starting to realize we might be an actual threat.”

“Damn right we are.” Valentine tugged his trenchcoat back over the holster and shot a quick look up at the sky. “There’s still a few hours before sunrise,” he told Carly. “Not like we wanna go wandering out in the dark with them out there.”

Carly nodded, letting the grip on her gun slip to the strap and then shoving it back over toward the mattress. “Right. Head out in the morning.” She seemed more shaken now that the threat was gone than when it had been some thirty feet away, but she still seemed fully prepared to sleep as she sank onto the floor again. “Thanks, Nick.”

The detective nodded. He stayed where he was until she had her face buried in her arms again. Deacon wasn’t entirely sure she’d end up asleep again, but it was something.

Valentine headed toward the house’s back door, pausing near Deacon just long enough to give him a considering look. “Still think I’m an Institute spy?”

The response was instinctive as Deacon shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. “Jury’s out.”

Valentine didn’t bother to reply. He did tug his hat a little further down onto his head and stepped outside again.

Deacon sank back onto the couch, and he wasn’t trying too hard to sleep this time. Instead he analyzed. First the appearance of the synths -- what their goals might be, where they could be going, what the odds were of meeting up with them again…

And then, almost unintentionally, it turned to Valentine. The reaction that might have been close to fear when he was warning them and the look that seemed almost like some kind of angry defiance while the synths were passing by could possibly be faked. Valentine was definitely better at controlling his reactions than a lot of people Deacon had met.

Then again, it could have also been genuine.

It was something to consider, at the very least.

It was something more than just words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: If you want to see me scream about Fallout as well as other things, you can also find my Tumblr, [located here](johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com). So ya know!


	4. think of the guns they sell

“I’ve dealt with Gunners -- took a shot to this shoulder because I was walking under the wrong bridge. Had to shoot back with my off-hand, it was a pain in the ass.”

“Bullshit.”

“You know what, Valentine, does it _really_ matter?”

“Well apparently, if you’re lying about it.”

“Would you both _shut up_?” Carly hissed, turning away from the lock she was working to glare at them each quickly. “I swear, I’ll shoot both of you myself.”

Deacon huffed a breath, scanning the area outside the small shack. Carly had taken out the Gunner on guard with an impressive headshot that he was sure she would have never managed a month ago. Fighting the entire group seemed extremely ill-advised and they were making an effort of getting past without drawing any unnecessary attention.

Part of the caution was due to the fact that they had a very limited supply of ammo. That was the only reason Carly had ducked into the small building that had a promising-looking chest she had spotted when they were passing by. Deacon had taken up watch at the door and Valentine was keeping an eye out through the hole in the wall that served as a window. They both looked around when Carly gave a satisfied grunt and the lock popped open.

“Remind me to show you a few places,” Deacon muttered, peering over her shoulder when she swung the lid open. “Any gold bars?”

“Doubt it. A couple --” She frowned, glancing up curiously. “Would those even be worth anything these days?”

“Hell if I know, I’m sure someone would buy it. Don’t ask me the exchange rate though.”

There wasn’t much in the chest. Carly took the 10mm clips and ejected the one that was already in the pistol there, and there were a few cells that fit a laser pistol Valentine had picked up from who-knew-where, but nothing for their rifles. Not surprising, but disappointing nonetheless. She stood, glancing down at her Pip-Boy briefly before sighing, shutting off the glow of its screen’s light and leading the way back outside.

“This search would be a hell of a lot easier,” she grumbled, “if anyone would actually _talk_ to us before trying to blow our damn heads off.”

“Well Gunners are the wrong ones to expect civil conversation with,” Valentine said. “Let’s get out of here before they check on that guard.”

They got the rest of the way around the camp with little incident. Carly tossed a few rocks to divert attention when one guard in a watchtower started being a little too curious and they slipped back into the shadows of the skyscrapers.

It was overcast and a chilled fog was rolling in from the coast. Deacon pulled his hat further down around his ears and he could see Carly trying to keep her coat closed with little success. Valentine, of course, didn’t seem affected by it. The extra damp layer on the rubble forced a slower pace which seemed to increasingly frustrate Carly, who kept glancing down at her Pip-Boy as if it might show them route free of weather.

The fourth time she did that, she stopped unexpectedly, and not in an ideal location, with buildings towering over them on either side. Deacon gave it a few seconds, keeping his eyes up to scan the broken windows before he leaned a little closer.

“Great place for a sniper,” he told her quietly, letting his fingers drum across the stock of his gun before stilling them. “Just saying.”

Carly seemed to shake herself back again, looking up once before crossing to a small alley that was, thankfully, free of surprises. She leaned back against the grimy wall, rubbing at her face for a moment before staring up at the sliver of sky above them. “I had an interview here.” That was met with silence and she gestured back at the building across the street. “When we first moved here, there was a firm in that building that I interviewed with. They wanted someone with less of a commute, so Nate told me…”

Deacon could hear the words catch in her throat and realized that this was perhaps the second time he’d actually heard her say her husband’s name out loud. Carly pressed a hand to her mouth for a few moments, staring hard at the pavement before releasing a breath that shook at the edges. In some ways Deacon was impressed that these sorts of realizations didn’t happen more often -- or, at least, not that he saw -- but he still had no idea how to handle them when they did. He shot a glance back at Valentine who seemed to take the cue and stepped past him to squeeze the woman’s shoulder gently.

“We can stop for a while,” he said. “Been going all day, we can rest.”

“No.” Carly’s hands were clenched at her sides now and her eyes had hardened. “No, we can’t, because there are probably super mutants in that building now, or something else that wants to kill us, and we have to find this _stupid_ Virgil so I can go find _more_ people that want to kill us.” She was at least making sure to keep her voice lowered, but Deacon could tell it was taking some effort. After another few pointed breaths, she turned abruptly and Valentine withdrew his hand as she strode down the alley, further into the fog.

They both hesitated a few seconds before following, and Deacon swung his rifle around to rest in his hands. At Valentine’s skeptical look he shrugged. “This is a mood that results in charging head-first into fights,” he muttered. “Easier to be prepared.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“I’d be more worried if there was nothing wrong. The Institute stole her kid; I’d be pissed too.”

They kept quiet after that, picking their way over a collapsed store and having to double back at least twice when the walls of stone were too high to scale. Carly’s map was accurate enough showing the streets and buildings, but it didn’t account for streets that were no longer passable or evidence of a super mutant camp that they gave a wide berth.

Southern Boston was always eerie for its lack of constant gunfire. Further north there were always some packs of Raiders fighting each other or travelers just looking to get to Diamond City in one piece. There was a pretty steady sound of shots in the distance, even as far east as the Railroad was stationed. Here it was quiet. Deacon wasn’t sure if that was just because the groups that had settled here kept a tight enough hold on their territory or if people had long since learned not to bother passing through. Likely some mixture of the two.

Of course, the quiet also made it a little harder to distinguish when it was a _bad_ sort of quiet.

Valentine seemed to have the same thought a split second later. He stilled suddenly, one hand closing around his pistol and the other reaching forward to grab Carly’s arm. Once she stopped he turned to look back at Deacon who met the yellow eyes with a nod.

The road to their left was blocked off by rubble. The pile they had just gotten off of was tall enough that it would take a lot of effort to go back that way. One of the buildings had a good chunk of wall blown out, exposing the interior that he couldn’t actually see into through the fog.

An ideal place for an ambush.

Well, shit.

All three of them moved almost simultaneously, just as a bullet cracked into the pavement where Valentine had been standing a second earlier. Deacon managed to roll behind what he assumed used to be half of a billboard, grateful for the foresight of having his rifle ready as he propped the barrel up to immediately scan what vantage points he could see.

There weren’t any mutant hounds howling and Raiders were rarely organized enough to stay hidden this long. Synths didn’t use anything but laser weapons, and he could definitely distinguish the crack of a high-powered rifle from somewhere higher up.

Gunners, then.

_Shit._

It seemed that Valentine had the same thought, because Deacon heard him swear from a few yards away -- apparently sheltered behind rubble himself, he wasn’t actually visible -- and call out, “Must’ve found that damn guard!”

Carly was already firing back, shouting something he couldn’t quite understand but that he was sure was less than polite. She was conserving ammo, at the very least; the shots weren’t erratic, and Deacon thought he heard at least one shout of pain from up in the fog. _Drawing them out. Smart._

He made himself listen, try to ignore the adrenaline and the urge to return fire whether he could see the targets or not. At least one hunting rifle up high, a smaller caliber -- pistol, probably -- down at the base of the blown-out wall, some automatic weapon -- either an assault rifle or machine gun -- letting off short bursts to the right…

Three, at the least. Maybe more with close-range weapons that just hadn’t started firing yet. Most likely more, really; Gunners weren’t stupid, and they’d send enough people to get the job done. At least he knew they hadn’t brought one of their damn Assaultrons along.

If there was an Assaultron, they’d already be dead.

Deacon scanned the area, trying to figure out where exactly Carly was. He only just spotted the muzzle flash above a chunk of fallen concrete and, after judging the distance and the amount of open space between them, swore under his breath.

Stealth Boy would certainly be nice right about now.

He sucked in a breath, rifle tight against his chest, and surged up before the nerve could leave him, a distant part of him wondering how many of the gunshots ringing in his ears were actually aiming for him.

At least one, apparently; Deacon felt himself hit the pavement and roll behind the closest bit of cover before the pain in his leg fully registered. The muzzle of a laser pistol in his face took priority a second after that, and he and Valentine seemed to recognize each other at the same time.

“Little warning next time might help,” Valentine growled, half-turning to fire a few shots toward the guy with the machine gun. Or assault rifle. Or whatever. “Nearly took your damn head off.”

“Well sorry for not drawing out a detailed plan,” Deacon hissed. He hadn’t even noticed his free hand clutching his calf, but there was definitely a good amount of blood on it when he pulled it away.

Valentine noticed it himself a second later and his face pulled into something that might have been slightly sympathetic. “How bad?”

“Just a scrape.” Probably wouldn’t hold his weight easily for a little while. “It’s fine. Where’s Carly?”

“By the building.” Valentine jerked his head to the right, pausing to fire off a few rounds toward the Gunner’s apparent sniper. The sharp smell of ozone the laser pistol left behind reminded Deacon strongly of the dozens of previous fights, facing down small platoons of gen-one synths. He always hated that smell. “Think she took out one of them already.”

“So probably what, four or so to go?”

“That’s what I’m hearing.” Valentine ducked back down abruptly, tugging a handful of spare cells out of his coat pocket and swapping them out for the spent ones with practiced ease. “Can’t get a read on that damn rifle…”

Deacon sighed heavily, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg as he turned and swung his gun up onto the edge of the concrete to squint through the scope.

“You know, running’s always an option!” he called out into the intersection. “I won’t shoot -- promise!”

They responded with a bullet hitting the rubble a foot or so from his head and Deacon ducked back down, not fully restraining his grin. “Second floor,” he said. “Right across from the door. Don’t suppose that thing’s good for long range?” Valentine shot him a withering look and he scoffed. “Right. I’ll get that moron, you take out anyone else who decides to show their face, and we can get back over to Carly before someone else picks up the rifle.”

“Can you run on that?” Valentine asked, nodding at the still-bleeding wound that Deacon hadn’t noticed himself holding again. The slight hesitation was answer enough, apparently. “Got any stims?”

“Not on me.” He waved a dismissive hand, flicking some blood onto the concrete as he did so. “It’s fine, not worth wasting one anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

A short lull in the gunfire made them both glance up in time to see a Gunner topple out of the first level of the blown building into the street. Carly’s whooping laugh was drowned out a second later by one of the others demanding to know “ _how hard can it be to take out three fucking people?_ ”

She had moved, apparently, because the muffled cracks of her pistol were further across the street than they had been earlier. Deacon wasn’t sure if she’d run out of ammo for the rifle or if she was saving it, but the Gunners certainly weren’t lacking.

Two down. At least three to go. And that sniper was priority.

He pushed any pain to the side stubbornly, getting into as good of a position as he could given the circumstances and scanning the building as best he could through the fog. He hated fog.

The Gunner was just visible above what was left of the wall. Deacon steadied his breathing and muttered a quick, “Dibs on the gun,” before squeezing the trigger.

It hit, at least. The fact that the guy got back up, his retaliation shots now much more erratic, told him it was probably a hit to the shoulder. Better than nothing, and if anything it made the Gunner a hell of a lot less cautious. They did have a tendency to get pissed when anyone actually got a shot on them.

A bright flash out of the corner of his eye drew Deacon’s attention for a moment and he looked up to see Valentine aiming over his head. The Gunner with the pistol fell a few yards away, a smoking hole in her chest. Deacon gave Valentine a quick nod before turning back to his scope. The sniper wasn’t even looking his way anymore, focused toward where Carly was still firing off quick rounds.

_Three and a half._

Damn, his leg hurt.

Another steadying breath, ignoring the echoing shots and the still-sharp smell of the lasers firing to his right, another loud crack in his ear, and the sharp kick of the rifle against his shoulder…

_Four._

He clicked the saftey back on and slung the gun across his shoulder, rolling far enough to pry the pistol away from the dead woman and grabbing what extra clips he could find quickly in her pockets.

Valentine was standing already, now focused on the rapidly-firing weapon whose owner was far better at staying covered. “You a sniper or something?” he asked, voice raised to be heard over the sharp chatter of bullets.

Deacon just grunted, weighing the new gun in his hands quickly. One nice thing about laser weapons -- they didn’t get blood all over everything. He used the rubble to help pull himself to his feet, jaw clenching when the left leg tried to buckle. “Let’s go.”

Valentine seemed skeptical, but he didn’t argue. They stuck to the edge of the open space, using the crumbled buildings as cover when the Gunner turned their focus away from Carly for a few moments. The pistol wasn’t the most powerful gun, but at least he had ammo for it, and Deacon forced the assailant to back down with a quick spray of shots, giving them time to reach where Carly was crouched.

She glanced up at them with a somewhat wild grin. “All this for one guy?” There was half of a laugh in the words, but it turned into more of a snarl when she turned and emptied the rest of her clip toward the Gunner. “Dunno why you're so pissed!” she called. “Bastard was sleeping on the job anyway!”

“You get hit?” Valentine asked, and Carly paused long enough to touch the spots of blood on the left side of her face.

“Just by some rock,” she said. “What about you?”

“I’m fine. This one,” he jerked his head toward Deacon who shot a quick glare back in response, “took one in the leg.”

“Just skimmed me, it’s fine,” Deacon muttered.

“You need a stim?”

All three of them ducked a little lower when the concrete around them was torn up by another burst of gunfire, and Deacon shook his head.

“Got bigger problems. I’m _fine_.”

“Stubborn asshole,” Carly muttered, but she turned her focus back to the Gunner. “You got any more .308s?”

“A couple, you need them?”

She held out her hand for an answer and Deacon rummaged through his pocket to pull out the small handful of bullets, handing them over while Valentine kept the shooter pinned down with a few quick shots. Carly swung her rifle back around and loaded it, her tongue poking out from one side of her mouth as she aimed.

There was a pause, an odd moment of quiet while both sides waited. The sudden crack from Carly’s gun almost made him jump, and the way she let out a deep breath before pulling the bolt back told him it was a successful shot.

“All that for one guy,” she repeated, scrubbing one arm over her face. It spread the blood around more than getting it off, but she didn’t seem to notice and propped the gun up against the concrete. “Should probably get out of here before they realize they’ve lost five move.” Her attention turned back to Deacon and she frowned. “You’re not walking on that.”

He scoffed, glancing down at the now-dark leg of his jeans. “I can move. Bleeding’s stopped already.”

“No it hasn’t,” Valentine spoke up, and Deacon glared at him again quickly.

“It _will_ ,” he insisted. “Doesn’t need a stim, there’s no point wasting them.” Not like he was fond of the things when there _was_ enough of an excuse to use one. They worked spectacularly, but the process wasn’t one he liked to sit through.

Carly’s sigh was long-suffering, and she pulled her bag off her shoulders to rummage through it quickly. “I can get it wrapped, at the very least, we’ve got enough bandages. Stitch it up once we get somewhere a little safer.” She glanced up, a small syringe in one hand. “I know we haven’t eaten in a little while, but you think you can suffer through some Med-X?”

He eyed the drug a little warily and then gave a defeated shrug. “I’ll manage.”

Valentine stood on watch while she pulled the gauze out and Deacon tugged up his jeans above the slice in his leg. It did look a lot more dramatic than he’d realized, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off it definitely started to feel more like it looked. He fished out a small chunk of wrapped mole-rat meat they’d cooked on their last stop and got a few bites down before the sharp sting of the needle hit his arm. Med-X was effective. It also had the habit of making him puke, even more so if taken on an empty stomach.

“Hate this stuff,” he muttered, and Carly rolled her eyes as she started winding the gauze around his leg.

“It hates you too, I’m sure. It’ll also get you walking, which is kind of important.”

Deacon grunted, letting his head lean back against the rubble as the expected rush of warmth spread through him. It did get rid of the pain. It also made things hazy, which he was never a fan of. He managed to shove the meat back into his bag and barely noticed Valentine stiffen in his peripheral.

That wasn’t a good sign.

“See something?” Carly asked. Her voice sounded a bit muffled and Deacon glanced down as she tightened off the bandages. It probably should’ve hurt. At least the drugs worked.

“Think there might be…” Valentine shook his head, head cocked to one side as he looked over the area.

Deacon didn’t even notice him move at first; the fact that he was suddenly being shoved to the side over cracked pavement and debris registered a second after the fact, and it took another second for the shout of _grenade_ to process.

_Well, shit._

Valentine was a lot stronger than he looked. He had managed to get both of the others at least halfway behind a different slab of concrete before the blast went off, and there were a few seconds after that where nothing was processing besides the loud ringing in Deacon’s ears. Things seemed to move in slow motion when he saw Carly shove herself up, heard the weirdly-muffled sound of her gun, and saw, distantly, a body fall from the roof of a nearby building.

_Six._

He couldn’t tell if the slowness was coming from the concussion of the blast or just from the Med-X, but it was frustrating either way, especially when he dimly registered a few new spots on his arms and neck that were leaking blood. Nothing broken -- probably -- and no arteries hit. Survivable.

It’d hurt like a bitch in the morning, but for now it was just sort of inconvenient.

He waved Carly off when she crouched over him, and her attention turned to Valentine immediately.

Valentine, who, face-down on the pavement, still wasn't moving.

Deacon felt something like dread pool in his stomach -- or it might have been the drugs, because he barely turned away in time to heave up what little he’d eaten. Things seemed to become a little clearer, at least, and it took a few shakes of his head to be able to hear properly again. The pain still wasn’t registering, which was probably good, but he managed to roll over, grab his glasses from where they had been knocked off, and push himself up enough to see the other two clearly.

“Don’t do this, you idiot,” Carly was muttering. She’d gotten Valentine turned over and her hands were hovering over him, unsure what they should actually be doing. “I don’t know what’s --” She looked over at Deacon suddenly, and there was a fear in her eyes that he hadn't seen before -- not like she sometimes got when facing down potenial death, but a more hopeless fear that he knew he was useless with. “I don’t know synths, I don’t know what to do.”

Deacon could’ve told her that he didn’t know models like this, that he had only ever shot them down. He could’ve reminded her that he dealt with gen-threes, ones like Glory, who were nearly biologically identical to humans anyway.

But he was, at his core, a liar.

“I’ve got some practice,” he said, pushing his sunglasses back on, “let me see.”

It took some effort to pull himself over and Deacon made some effort to look like he knew what he was doing. He hadn’t seen Valentine from this close before, and if anything it just made things more confusing. The mechanics he could see, the ones exposed through the tattered skin at the neck, were similar to those he’d seen on gen-twos. He’d never paid much attention to those, though, since it was usually in the middle of a firefight and the science behind the ones attacking him wasn’t exceedingly important.

Deacon checked over what looked familiar, some of the tubing that looked like it was mimicking arteries, and that much seemed intact. It was only when he pressed a hand to Valentine’s chest -- shakier than he would like, he hated those damn drugs -- that he actually noticed the very soft whirring of machinery in motion.

“I think he’s alright,” he said, trying to keep the hesitation from being heard. “Just seems...knocked out.”

“He’s not breathing,” Carly pointed out, and Deacon shook his head.

“Dunno if he needs to, really, I think it’s just a habitual thing, same as the smoking.”

Carly let out a slow breath, sitting back a little. Her eyes never left the detective on the ground, but after a moment she rubbed a hand across her face. “We’ll wait a few minutes. I can’t carry him, and you can’t put too much weight on that leg.”

“Think that was the last of the Gunners?” Deacon asked, and she frowned.

“Should’ve been, but...think you can get that rifle? Just in case?”

He nodded, pulling himself to his feet with a little difficulty. It didn’t actually hurt, but the ground decided to lurch when he was vertical again and Deacon decided to keep a firm hand on the buildings just in case. It was a good excuse to step away, anyway. He could handle Carly when she was in one of her “shoot everything that moves” moods, but he didn’t know what to do with this quiet fear.

He didn’t quite know how to handle the fact that Valentine had gotten them _both_ out of the blast radius before the grenade blew.

So he didn’t think about it, all of his focus going to making his way across the debris and the interesting task of climbing up to the second floor of the blown-out building where the sniper still lay. This one certainly had blood on everything, and he grimaced while fishing through the various coat pockets in search of ammo. It was a little surprising to find .50 caliber bullets, but less so when he saw the gun.

“Silver lining,” Deacon muttered, swinging it up to test the scope. The thing was heavy, and it definitely explained why just a graze had sliced into his leg as badly as it had. Gunners were a pain in the ass to fight, but they always had the best guns if someone was lucky enough to be alive to claim them. He got the rifle over his free shoulder, trying to keep it from hitting against his own gun too much as he poked around a little more, rummaging through the bag the Gunner had propped up by his perch.

The extra box of ammo was a welcome surprise, and he pocketed a bottle of Rad-X that was stuffed into a side pocket. The small bundle of papers at the bottom were generally uninteresting -- notes about contracts, one record of a betting pool over when someone named Jacob would figure out that his ammo supply had been swapped with blanks -- but one caught his eye as he flipped past it and Deacon paused to read it over a few more times before stuffing it in his pocket.

It was slow going as he started back down to ground level, especially once the strain on the leg got to be a little too much for even Med-X to suppress. He wasn’t shot at, at least, and made it back to the others, letting the new gun slip to the ground. Carly glanced up and she seemed a little more hopeful.

“He’s been moving a bit,” she said as Deacon sank back to the pavement. “Think you were right, it just knocked him out somehow.” Deacon nodded, resisting the urge to scratch at his leg where it was starting to prickle. He really hated those drugs. “I still don’t know how bad it is,” Carly continued after a minute, and he could see her uncertainty when he glanced over. “No idea how to find out, and it’s...I think we should take him to Boston.”

Deacon felt himself frown. He knew what she meant. They both knew that he knew it. Still…”We’re in Boston.”

“The church, Deacon.”

He was shaking his head before she finished the sentence, pointedly looking up because he knew the look he was getting. “I can’t risk that.”

“You _still_ don’t trust him?” The silence seemed to answer that and Carly swore quietly, giving a short incredulous laugh. “What’s he gotta do, step in front of a deathclaw for you?”

“It’s not just about me,” Deacon hissed. “It’s bigger than that, you know that.”

“Nick isn’t Institute.”

“And how do you _know_ that?” He looked back down at her, meeting her eyes and wondering for a moment if she’d ever actually seen his clearly. “Most of the tourists don’t know where HQ is, and we keep it that way for a reason. Compartmentalizing is the only way we’ve survived this long, and that means we only bring in people we _know_ we can trust.”

Carly considered him for a few seconds, her expression unreadable. “You brought me in.”

She wasn’t wrong. He hated it when she did that. Deacon sighed. “You’re not a synth.”

“You have a way of knowing that for sure?”

 _I watched you step out of that Vault myself._ He didn’t bring that up. Instead he shook his head once. “We help synths escape. All of them are gen-threes. We don’t have someone set aside for maintenance. Besides,” he added, twisting to pull the crumpled paper out of his pocket and passing it over to her, “I think you might have another destination in mind.”

Carly frowned at him a moment longer before unfolding the paper and squinting down at it curiously. Deacon could tell when she finished the first time, looked back at him, her brow furrowed, and then read through it again.

“Where’d you get this?” she asked. Deacon jerked his head toward the other building quickly, regretting it a second later when it made his vision swim.

“Gunner. Had it with a bunch of contracts.”

“So one of their men saw a…”

“Super mutant teleporting, apparently.” He shrugged with a sigh. “I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but they mentioned that blue lightning.”

“Just like in Kellogg’s memories.” Carly stared down at the paper again, her grip on it tighter than was probably necessary. “Teleporting super mutant who gave them a bottle of water...no wonder they thought the guy was going nuts. Even for the Commonwealth that’s weird.” Her eyes narrowed again at the last few lines and she looked back up at Deacon again. “They said it headed into the Glowing Sea. What’s the Glowing Sea?”

“One hell of a shithole.” Valentine’s voice made them both start and they stared down at him as he tried to push himself up onto one elbow. “But one hell of a hiding place, too.” The breath he pulled in was deliberate and somewhat shaky, but his eyes were as bright as usual -- literally, in his case, the yellow glow had returned as strong as ever -- as he looked between the other two. His expression seemed to harden a bit when he blinked up at Deacon and then pulled into a grimace. “We should talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has, joyfully, been art drawn for this chapter!  
> You can find the art [Here](http://fallouttrashy.tumblr.com/post/151070756722/cloaks-daggers-and-cigarette-smoke-66466-words) and the artist's main blog [Here](http://dat-eyebrows.tumblr.com).
> 
> Give them all the love!


	5. the wonderful part of the mess that we made

“We should talk.”

Carly stared for another few seconds and Deacon could see the moment the relief flooded through her, see her shoulders drop as she forced out half of a laugh. “Is now really the time?” she managed, her voice a few inches away from breaking. “Holy shit, Nick, you scared me half to death…”

“I’m alright,” he grumbled, even as he put obvious effort into sitting up. “A bit banged up is all, I’ve had worse.” He paused, pulling in and releasing a slow breath that they all now knew he didn’t actually need. “You okay?” Carly nodded, and when Valentine shot a look at Deacon, Deacon gave a quick shrug. It seemed enough. “In that case, we need to talk.”

“Think we could manage that on the move?” Deacon asked, glancing back toward the last Gunner on the ground. “I’d rather not have any more surprises come raining down.”

Carly looked around herself and sighed. “He’s right,” she said. “That would’ve drawn some attention, and we’re still too close to their camp for my liking. I don’t want to wait here for reinforcements. Anyway,” she jerked her head toward Deacon quickly, “still need to get that leg stitched up. Can you both walk a little ways?”

There was a very short hesitation before Valentine nodded, and Deacon pushed himself up as an answer, grabbing the new rifle and slinging the strap over his shoulder. It was shaky footing, maybe, but the combination of stubbornness and medication could keep him upright. Carly offered a hand to help pull Valentine up and pulled her bag back on.

“Give me a second,” she said, and they watched her jog back over the rubble to each fallen Gunner.

“Certainly thorough,” Deacon muttered. Valentine was silent behind him, and Deacon resisted the urge to look back; that would make it feel like he was obligated to say something, and hell if he knew what that should be.

Carly led the way out once she got back. Their pace was slow, but mainly focused on putting distance between themselves and the camp that likely had an impressive grudge at this point. Deacon was doing his best not to limp and not fully succeeding. Valentine looked like he had some damage to his right arm, holding it against his chest and keeping his left hand on his gun. If there were other problems, he was hiding them well, but he couldn’t entirely hide the occasional grimaces.

They were easy pickings. It wasn’t a comforting thought, and Deacon kept scanning the surroundings as carefully as he could while not tripping over protruding rebar or fallen cement. Somehow they weren’t ambushed. Somehow the universe didn’t decide to try finishing off what it had already gotten a good start on. Carly found a small diner that was unoccupied apart from a radroach clinging to the wall which she immediately killed with the butt of her rifle.

It wasn’t ideal, but it was off the street and out of plain sight. Be nice to have a locked door, but you couldn’t be too picky in Boston.

“Let me see that leg,” Carly said as she dropped her bag onto one of the cracked chairs.

Deacon gritted his teeth as he slid down the wall, left leg extended. The blood had started to soak through the gauze and the Med-X was beginning to wear off. It left everything itchy -- second worst part, after the initial haze -- and the smaller injuries were starting to make themselves known.

Carly was digging through her bag, muttered something about organizing later. She glanced up at Deacon, her small medical kit in one hand. “You gonna want another shot?”

He shook his head sharply before realizing that was a bad idea. “Last one hasn’t worn off,” he said. Valentine shot him a pointed look from the door which he ignored. “I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she did kneel down next to him and set unwrapping the leg. After a few seconds she shot a glare up at Valentine. “Sit down, dammit, you need to rest.”

“I can keep watch,” Valentine told her, and Deacon was impressed that he didn’t flinch at the way her glare hardened.

“The hell you can. _Sit._ ”

The detective didn’t entirely manage to hide his grimace when sank onto the dusty floor. Deacon let himself watch for a moment as Valentine fished a rusty screwdriver out of his bag and started tightening a few screws on his right hand.

That focus was cut short when a sudden burning shot up his leg and the surprise didn’t let him hold back the sharp hiss. Carly looked up from the small bottle of vodka she held and her smirk didn’t entirely lack sympathy.

“Hasn’t worn off, huh?” She pressed forward, though, pouring a bit of the vodka on the needle in her other hand before starting in on the stitches. Deacon let his head fall back against the wall and was glad that his glasses hid the way his eyes were squeezed shut. A stimpak _would_ have been a lot faster...but stitches were definitely a hell of a lot cheaper, and Deacon liked to think he had a pretty high pain tolerance.

“I’m not with the Institute.” Valentine’s voice still sounded tired, and he wasn’t looking at either of them when Deacon glanced over.

Carly’s hands paused for a moment. She didn’t look up, but she sighed quietly. “I know that, Nick.”

“I’m sure _you_ do.” He did shoot a pointed look over at them that time. “You deserve to know anyway -- and maybe it’ll get _him_ off my back.”

Deacon stamped down the instinctive sarcastic retort, partially because he was just too worn out to bother and partially because he knew Carly wouldn’t appreciate it, and she was currently threading his leg back together. He knew all about stories, though. He’d told plenty of them himself over the years. Words didn’t mean much at all, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t listen.

“I told you,” Valentine started, nodding at Carly, “about coming into Diamond City. Took a while for the locals there to stop being afraid of me, even longer for them to actually trust me. But before that…” He sighed, pocketing his screwdriver and letting his head rest against the wall. “The Institute makes all of the synths, we know that. Everything from their foot soldiers to the ones you can’t tell from humans. I’m something...in between, I guess. A prototype, maybe, a mold they wanted to test out before upgrading even further. Self-aware, not like the first ones, but still fully mechanical, not bioengineered. Still get tune-ups instead of check-ups. Suppose I’m an experiment.

“But I’m not with them.” His expression seemed to harden and he took to staring down at the cracked linoleum. “I don’t even remember anything from inside -- maybe quick flashes, some testing chamber, but nothing coherent, definitely nothing useful.” Valentine paused and Deacon could see his metal hand flexing. There were a few moments where he seemed to be collecting his thoughts, possibly deciding just how much to tell, and then he shook his head. “My memories, my personality...most of the new synths, they get to figure that stuff out on their own, I suppose, at least to some extent. Everything of mine is from some cop who volunteered for an experiment before the war. They plugged him in, hardwired his brain into some computer, and apparently saved it for over a century somehow.”

“Before the war?” Carly was still and her voice quiet. She managed to shake herself back just long enough to finish off the last stitch and cut the thread before sitting back heavily. “You’re saying...you’re from my time?”

“In a way.” Valentine’s hand fumbled at his breast pocket but came up empty. Maybe his pack had fallen out during the fight, maybe he was just out. “It’s been so long, those memories are...they’re hazy a lot of the time. Nick was a cop, though, and a good one. Good instinct, good heart...dunno why they decided to use some prewar cop instead of a math genius or bioengineer or something...but hey, maybe that’s why they tossed me out instead of turning me into one of their people snatchers.”

His sigh was heavy this time, and yellow eyes turned to stare down at the metal fingers that were clenched at his side. “I remember waking up in a trash heap, body in tatters and a head full of memories of a guy who’s been dead for 200 years. I don’t know why -- why they made me to begin with, why they scrapped me, why it apparently didn’t take, but I do know it was a confusing couple of weeks.”

The little diner fell silent. Carly had sat back, her hands still streaked with blood and something that might have been worry in her eyes. It was strange seeing her at a loss for words, and Deacon found he couldn’t think of anything to say himself. He was surprised when Valentine turned to look directly at him, expression unreadable.

“The Institute built me,” the detective said plainly. “There’s no denying that. I haven’t had a single encounter with them since that didn’t involve being shot at by earlier models.”

Deacon considered him for a moment and then allowed a light sigh himself. “So why haven’t they made any moves to get you back?”

“Hell if I know. Been out in the open since the beginning.” Valentine shrugged, not entirely hiding the grimace that followed. “Doubt they’d have much use for an old model with some detective experience, and I haven’t exactly been a threat. At least,” he amended, shooting a small grin at Carly, “not until you came along.”

She tried for a laugh, didn’t quite succeed, and rubbed the back of one arm over her face. “Yeah, I tend to complicate things like that...hell, Nick, I wouldn’t…” The woman trailed off, giving Deacon a pointed look. “Enough for you?”

It wasn’t, really. He’d known that from the start. It was words, and as convincing as they could sound, Deacon knew better than to trust words. He was a prime example of why you _shouldn’t_ , and he knew Valentine was good at talking. It wasn’t enough, no.

He let himself hesitate and then he nodded.

It took a moment for Carly to look like she accepted that. She gave his leg another once-over and then pulled a rag out of one pocket. It was already stained with blood, grime, and whatever other unidentifiable mess came out of the Commonwealth, and it didn’t succeed in getting much of the blood off of her hands now.

“Well,” she sighed after a few moments, “great. So there won’t be any shooting each other in the back now, right?” That was met with silence, but she didn’t seem to care and set to digging through her bag again. Deacon had to hold back a groan when there was suddenly another chunk of wrapped meat shoved toward him. “Eat.”

“I’m fine.”

Carly shot him a withering glare and tossed it onto his lap unceremoniously. “Like hell you are. Eat or I’ll consider taking those stitches back.”

Deacon groaned, rubbing one hand over the back of his neck. “Almost rather take the stim…”

He felt he could win whatever sort of staring contest they had somehow started, especially considering he still hadn’t taken off his glasses, but it didn’t really seem worth the effort right now. He did make sure to grumble a little as he unwrapped it, turning it over in his hands. Probably mole rat. Not like it mattered in the long run. And she wasn’t wrong; he’d already thrown up once. The Med-X had pretty much worn off already and he didn’t entirely trust himself to balance properly if he stood up right now, even without the leg wound.

It was still tough and stringy. Very little meat wasn’t these days. Nowhere near gourmet, but possibly enough to get him going again.

And they really did need to get going again.

Carly seemed satisfied, pushing herself up and scrubbing at her face like she was trying to get the smeared blood off. She paused long enough to stare out the broken windows, fingers tapping at the pistol on her hip before going over to crouch beside Valentine.

“How’re you doing?” she asked, and her voice softened marginally as she glanced him over. “Don’t you lie to me, either, I’m getting enough of that already.”

Valentine looked like he had to consider it and Deacon could see both of his hands flexing a few times. “Alright,” he said. “Not great. Can’t really get a good look at things out here, but I can move.”

“Great. This is…” Carly let out a long sigh, her head dropping to stare down at the floor. “This is great. So what now?”

“Well,” Valentine pushed himself up a little straighter, not entirely holding back a grimace, “we got what we came here for, didn’t we? Someone saw Virgil.”

“Someone saw a super mutant,” Carly corrected him. “And that was a Gunner who might’ve been slightly crazy.”

“Everyone out here is crazy. How many super mutants do you hear about teleporting in some flash of blue lightning?”

She seemed to try a laugh again. It wasn’t much more successful than the last. “So the Institute is throwing super mutants around now. Think he would tell us how to get in before ripping an arm off?”

Valentine shrugged. “Maybe not,” he said, “but our other leads haven’t turned up anything even remotely useful, have they?”

He was right. They all knew he was right. Carly wasn’t happy with it, but Deacon could see her give in when her shoulders dropped.

“So what’s the Glowing Sea?” she asked.

“Not somewhere you want to go.” Deacon managed to choke down the rest of the meat, crumpling the paper it had been wrapped with in one hand. “It’s to the southwest, this giant radioactive hellhole.”

“It’s where the bomb fell,” Valentine said. “The main blast radius. Been unlivable to anything but bugs and deathclaws for the past two centuries.”

Carly was staring across the diner to the opposite wall now, and something in her eyes looked distant. It was entirely possible that she remembered that bomb herself, Deacon realized. From what he knew of the history -- and it was difficult to tell just how accurate it was, considering most of it had been 200 years of word-of-mouth -- many of the Vaults had been filled in a last-minute panic as the bombs fell.

111 was uncomfortably close to the point of impact. He wondered if they’d had much of a warning at all.

“How bad is the radiation?” Carly asked after a minute. Valentine and Deacon glanced at each other almost unconsciously. The previous issues and distrust could be put aside for a moment when it was clear that she was starting to get bad ideas.

“The Gunner only said it was headed that direction,” Deacon pointed out. “Even a super mutant with half a brain would know to stay out of that place.”

“Not if they’re on the run.” She looked back at him and yeah, that was definitely the usual stubborn glint starting up in her eyes. “If this place is so bad, even the Institute would avoid it, right?”

“ _Everyone_ avoids it.” Valentine leaned forward a little. He was holding his right arm up against this chest again and looked like he was making an effort not to move it too much. “If we’re going to check this out, we can head that way, check around the border…”

“How bad is the radiation?” Carly repeated.

Another quickly exchanged look, and when Deacon just shrugged Valentine sighed. “Couldn’t say for sure,” he said. “I don’t know anyone who’s actually tried going.”

“For damn good reason,” Deacon felt compelled to add. “Those rad storms that roll in? That’s where they come from. You want to go wading into that?”

She didn’t answer that directly. Instead she stood, doing another sweeping look outside before looking between the other two. “We shouldn’t stay here long. Still too close to that camp for comfort.”

Valentine only hesitated for a few seconds before he nodded. Standing looked like it took quite a bit of effort. He was still keeping a stubbornly determined air, but it wasn’t hard to see the caution as he moved and the strain on his face. He waved off Carly when she reached out to offer support, straightening and tugging his coat closed with his left hand.

“You sure you’re good to move?” she asked, not bothering to hide the worry in her voice.

“I’m good,” Valentine said. “Never did understand why they programmed us to feel pain, but…” His shoulders rolled quickly as if to prove the point. “I’ll be alright.”

Carly didn’t look entirely convinced. She didn’t press it, though, and turned back to Deacon. “What about you? Think you can walk?”

He let his pride fall by the wayside just long enough to accept her offered hand and the quick tug to his feet. It turned out to be just a bit too fast; Deacon paused, catching the wall before the wave of dizziness took him back to the floor. Once things straightened out again he nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Valentine muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _bullshit_ and Deacon was tempted to inform the detective that he wasn’t in any better shape, but Carly distracted him by shoving a bottle of water into his hand.

“Drink,” she ordered. “You’ve lost enough blood for my tastes, I don’t want you passing out.”

It wouldn’t do much good to argue with her now, especially since she was right. The water was at least less murky than he was used to and missing that all-too-familiar tang of radiation. It was tempting to down half the bottle at once, but the remnants of the chems in his system would probably make that a bad idea, so he settled for sipping while Carly packed away her bag again and took the new sniper rifle on her own shoulder.

They were cautious leaving the little diner, and their pace was slow, partially to accommodate for the injuries and partially so they could keep a close eye out around them for any other attacks. Deacon wasn’t paying too much attention to the direction they were going until he caught a glimpse of the shoreline through the clearing fog and realized that it hadn’t been on the right before.

“We’re going back to Boston?” he asked, voice low. Carly nodded, pausing long enough to glance down at her Pip-Boy before looking up at him.

“Back north, yeah.”

“What happened to the Glowing Sea idea?”

She sighed, looking toward Valentine who had stopped at the end of the alley they were in to look at the street ahead. “We’re not in any kind of shape to be going right into that,” she told him. “Even without those damn Gunners, we’re low on supplies. Not prepared for a trip that long.”

“So we’re going back to...where exactly?” Deacon tried to make it a pointed question and apparently succeeded a little too well because he spotted Valentine glancing back at them as well.

Carly’s expression was hard to read. There might have been a little resignation there, but she turned away before he could figure it out. “Goodneighbor. It’s closest, and Hancock owes me a favor.”

Goodneighbor. Well, that he could handle. He’d spent enough time there, and the mayor supported the Railroad enough to turn a convenient blind eye every time they had work with Amari or needed a place to keep a synth out of sight for a few days. It was better than striding directly into headquarters.

They wouldn’t get there before night fell, though. They weren’t moving particularly quickly, and even if it was closest, it was still a hike, especially trying to avoid any fights along the way. Even that wasn’t completely successful.

It wasn’t anything as serious as the Gunner ambush. Admittedly, that might have been one of the worse fights they’d seen so far. Gunners were just a nuisance alone, but they knew how to work together effectively and anything more than two tended to be a serious threat. Deacon felt they could count it lucky that they scraped by with one deeper graze and whatever damage Valentine had taken.

The camp seemed to have cut their losses, though, and they didn’t meet any more angry mercenaries with high powered rifles. Just dogs. A small pack of very angry dogs _without_ high powered rifles, so a definite improvement. It was still annoying as hell to deal with them.

The dogs didn’t actually get close enough to do real damage save the leader whose teeth scraped by on Carly’s leg enough to draw some blood. Even that much shouldn’t have happened; they were slower than usual. Deacon was still keeping the flashes of vertigo at bay and couldn’t really run without pulling at the stitches. Valentine was sticking to using his left arm which slowed his aim and there was obviously still some other internal damage judging by the way he kept wincing any time he moved quickly.

They were lucky it was just dogs. Carly finished the alpha off with one final shot from her pistol and swore under her breath, rubbing the cut on her leg quickly.

“Don’t suppose that tetanus shot lasts two hundred years,” she muttered.

Valentine snorted. Deacon had no idea what she was talking about. They moved on.

Deacon was fairly certain they had passed Andrew Station before stopping for the night. It wasn’t even technically night, but Carly always made sure to find shelter before the sun had really set. He wondered about that, like many things she did, and whether she’d known that sort of thing before having to survive the Commonwealth or if it had been a lesson learned the hard way.

He wasn’t sure what the building used to be, but it had enough of a roof and walls that looked sturdy. There wasn’t much inside -- a few ruined tables and one or two filing cabinets that had been ripped apart a long time ago. They settled in the corner that had the best view of the door and front window and Carly glared at him until he finished off the bottle of water.

“You have a plan,” Valentine said, eyeing the woman as she dug through her bag. “I can tell that much.”

Carly didn’t answer right away and her movements looked unnecessarily purposeful for examining wrapped food and small pouches of what might have been the electronic scraps she picked up. Eventually she looked up; her expression was being kept carefully clear, and Deacon started to regret giving her tips on the best way to do that.

“We’re going to Goodneighbor,” she said plainly. “We’ll get some decent rest there, resupply, and I’m going to have a talk with Hancock.”

No new information there. Deacon frowned, fiddling with the strap of his rifle to keep from scratching at his leg. “Yeah, about that. What do you need Hancock for?”

“I know John,” Valentine added. “He’s a good guy. His methods are just a little…eccentric.”

Carly scoffed, her eyes turning back to her bag. “That’s putting it mildly. It’s nothing bad, don’t worry. Like I said, he owes me a favor. Manages to scrape me a couple discounts around town.”

Valentine looked just about as convinced of that as Deacon felt, but neither of them pressed the issue. Carly pulled out a small can of what looked like Cram and stood.

“I’m going to take watch,” she told them, and Valentine’s immediate protest was cut short by a sharp look. “You are going to _rest_ for once. I don’t care if you sleep or whatever, but _rest._ Shit, Nick, you took a grenade today, that should be enough of an excuse.” The detective didn’t seem to have an argument for that, but he did sigh as he leaned back against the wall. Carly stared him down for a few more seconds before nodding at Deacon. “You too. I’ll wake you up in a few hours, but I expect you to use them.”

Deacon gave her a half-hearted salute, watching her turn and go back outside, presumably to sit against the door just like Valentine always did. He let out a slow breath, lifting his glasses enough to rub his eyes. The adrenaline had worn off a long time ago, and whatever was left of the Med-X wasn’t actually blocking the pain in his leg, but it was making sleep seem like a very good idea.

“You know she was lying, right?” Deacon asked, not sure if Carly would be able to hear it and not really caring that much. Valentine gave a quiet hum to his right.

“Yeah. She’s less convincing than you are.”

Deacon let himself glance over with the start of a smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Valentine scoffed. “You shouldn’t.”

It was quiet for a stretch. Deacon thought he might have heard some thunder in the distance, but that could also have been part of a building collapsing. He knew he should say something. After everything that happened today, he should definitely say something. He had just never been very good at putting something like gratitude into words. Not for real, anyway, and it had become very clear that he couldn’t get most lies past Valentine.

Instead he fished his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, pulled one out, and then held the pack out to his right wordlessly. He could practically feel Valentine’s stare and let out a quick breath that might have been trying for a laugh.

“What, don’t recognize a peace offering?”

There was only a short pause after that before the offering was accepted and Valentine tugged a cigarette out himself. Deacon returned the box to its pocket, hearing the distinctive click of the lighter, and looked around just in time to catch it as it was tossed to him.

“You’re welcome,” Valentine said, and it was clear that he wasn’t referring just to the lighter.

Maybe there were some benefits to the guy being so perceptive.

“She’s gonna bitch about the smell,” Deacon noted as he flicked the lighter on himself, and Valentine might have chuckled.

“Well that’s what she gets for lying to us.”


	6. the first step is the one you believe in...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you might notice I have reached the 'absolutely awful' stage of updating. School's started in force again (yay senior year!) so even if I don't have many classes I'm still actually doing stuff now. So. Forgive my inevitable slowness, because I'm the worst at actually getting chapters out in a timely fashion. (Not to mention all the other fics I should be working on as well, minor details.)
> 
> Anyway. Chapter! Stuff happens! Let me know what you think, come yell with me on Tumblr, whatever floats your boat.

The fog had turned into a light rain by the next morning. It was more of an inconvenience than a problem; they were still surrounded by enough tall buildings that there were stretches of sheltered areas, and they were reaching the denser part of the city before noon.  
  
Deacon had refused the offered painkiller when they started out and started to regret it after the first hour. They managed a better pace than the day before, but he couldn't quite keep from limping. Neither of the others mentioned it. They didn't talk much at all, really. Carly had that sharp determined look that he'd seen a few times, and they moved steadily and quietly around places that looked like there might be any chance of people who wouldn't be happy to see them. Valentine gave occasional route suggestions and he seemed to know where he was going well enough that Deacon didn't bother.  
  
The most surprising thing was Carly's lack of rummaging. She usually took detours to poke through old offices or apartments in search of anything that could be useful. It wasn't the fastest way to travel, but it did usually turn up a few stashes of canned food or something that they could sell when they got back to town. Now they were just pushing straight through like she had some appointment to keep.  
  
It was an impressive combination of speed and stealth that Deacon would have been much more impressed by if he weren't so focused on walking without cringing every step.  
  
The adrenaline when he'd actually been shot had staved off most of the initial pain. The Med-X afterwards had kept his body from really acknowledging that it'd been grazed by a bullet almost the size of his hand. He was grateful, at least, that it was just a graze and that he could still walk at all. Half an inch over and that would have been questionable. Of course, that probably would have warranted stronger chems.  
  
He did rather like having use of both legs.  
  
As it was, it hurt. A lot. Deacon was pretty sure it wasn't bleeding, but it definitely hurt.  
  
It had just gotten to the point where that was a very consistent thought when Carly paused, looked around, and then jerked her head toward the side of the road. "Let's get a break."  
  
Deacon tried to not let too much relief show as he sank onto a reasonably intact bench, rubbing the wrapping they'd put over the stitches that morning gingerly. Valentine sat, too, surprisingly without prompting. All three of them were exhausted, that much was clear. Even Carly let out a slow breath, scrubbing a hand over her face. That only resulted in breaking open the smaller scabs that had formed where the rocks had hit her, but if she noticed the blood she didn't do anything about it.  
  
"Should be just another hour or so," she said. "There are usually some Raiders hanging out just north of the gate, but we might be able to avoid those if we get over that bus to the east."  
  
He wasn't sure if she was actually looking for a response to that, but Deacon offered a quick thumbs-up just in case before tugging a bottle of water out of his bag and fighting a moment with the cap to get it open. Normally Raiders wouldn't be any real problem -- especially not the ones that were dumb enough to hang around the bigger settlements like that -- but they weren't in the kind of shape that could take on a group, particularly not an armed one.  
  
"Then what?" Valentine asked. He was leaning forward, his arms on his knees, but he was staring up at Carly with what might have been a bit of a frown. "Get supplies, talk to John...is there more to this plan?"  
  
She didn't answer right away. It was clear that she was trying to make the hesitation look like she was thinking of an answer instead of withholding one she already knew. Deacon could tell the difference, and he knew if he could then Valentine almost certainly could too. Finally she shrugged, leaning back against the wall.  
  
"Let's focus on getting there first. We'll talk about it then."  
  
"Which means I won't like the idea, doesn't it?" Valentine guessed, and Carly shot him a tired grin.  
  
"When do you ever like my ideas, Nick?"  
  
His eyes rolled. “You have decent ideas. Just terrible ways of going about them.”

“That is a point,” Deacon said. Carly glared half-heartedly at him before turning to stare out at the street.

“Things work out. Eventually. We got Kellogg, didn’t we?” Valentine gave a conceding shrug -- not that she could see it anyway -- and she gestured over her shoulder toward Deacon. “And that work we did in the subway went off without a hitch, right?”

“We did have a bit of help there,” he reminded her, and she scoffed.

“Didn’t end up needing it, really. We get things done.”

“And nearly get killed in the process half the time,” Valentine said.

“I agree with him,” Deacon added, “and you _know_ that’s saying something.”

She didn’t answer immediately. They all looked around at the sharp sound of gunfire to the west, and after pausing to determine whether they might be an actual threat she swung her arms at her sides quickly and turned around again.

“We can talk about it when we get to town,” Carly said. “If you’re ready to go…”

Deacon didn’t let himself hesitate too long before pushing himself to his feet and shouldering his bag again as an answer. Valentine just shrugged and stood a moment later, stretching out his right arm. When they started north again it was at a slightly slower pace; getting closer to Goodneighbor didn’t necessarily mean they were much safer, but it was familiar territory now. It was familiar blood-stained streets and Deacon spotted a number of routes that he alternated between when travelling back to the church.

It was strange not going there now, even if he’d spent much longer stretches away from headquarters, but going there wasn’t an option at this point. Not with Valentine still around.

They reached the bus without incident, though it took longer than usual to scramble up the piled dirt to the roof. The rain was starting to pick up which made the soft red glow of the town’s sign a very welcome sight. Carly lifted a hand when she got closer to the front of the bus, swinging her rifle up to squint through the scope and do a sweeping look at the street ahead.

“Should be alright,” she muttered, lowering the gun again before adding in an undertone, “or there could be a pack of super mutants, who knows?”

She led the way sliding down to street level, once cursing the lack of something that sounded like ‘dry cleaning’ before resuming the previous quick and silent stride toward the gate. While the Raiders in this area weren’t stupid enough to try anything in the town itself, they did have a habit of waiting outside to pick off anyone who emerged unprepared.

Deacon thought he might have heard one -- or at least _someone_ talking just around the corner -- but before he could really check it they were pushing through the large gate into the courtyard.

It was a relief, for sure, even with Goodneighbor’s reputation as a less than savory place. It was well-lit here at least, which was a nice change after so long with the sun blotted out by grey clouds. Unfortunately, the assurance of much less danger made him suddenly aware of all of his injuries. Deacon managed to keep from wincing when his leg gave a sharp throb and the smaller cuts from the grenade’s shrapnel reminded him of their existence.

It had been a long couple of days.

Carly was glancing around, her eyes lingering on the towering State House before she turned back to them abruptly and swung her bag off, dropping it on the nearest bench.

“I’m going to find Hancock,” she said. “You mind getting rid of that extra ammo we picked up?”

“Thought you were talking to him about discounts,” Valentine pointed out, and the way Carly froze said that she’d forgotten that detail.

“I’ll work it out,” she said after a second, one hand waving dismissively. “Meet me in front of the Third Rail?”

She was gone before either of them could actually agree, jogging toward the small alley and slipping into the first door there like she owned the place herself. Deacon made a mental note to bring up that potentially life-threatening habit at some point.

“I’ve got it,” he told Valentine, hefting the woman’s bag onto his shoulder and crossing the courtyard to the small weapon’s shop. His strategy of pretending the vendor behind the counter was PAM didn’t usually work as well as he would’ve liked, especially since this particular Assaultron gave vague threats rather than cryptic probabilities.

And, of course, the fact that she seemed to sense wariness immediately.

“Don’t worry,” KL-E-O purred -- an unsettling tone from someone who could easily vaporize him -- as she pulled a few boxes of ammo out from behind the counter, “I only test the weapons on people I don’t like.”

“Good thing we’re friends then, isn’t it?” Deacon noted. That only got silence and he managed to keep a grin on until he’d finished swapping out the spare bullets for ones that actually fit their guns. It wasn’t much, but enough to scrape by for a while.

“Most people would rather make the trip to Diamond City before buying weapons here,” Valentine said as Deacon reached him. He accepted the offered fusion cells and pocketed them, leading the way down the narrow alley toward the rest of the town as Deacon stuffed the ammo for his gun into his bag.

“Ah, she’s not so bad,” Deacon said. “Just gotta accept the prices and move along.”

“Prices aren’t what keep people away.” One of the ghouls carrying a machine gun waved as they passed and Valentine nodded back with a quick grin. Apparently he was well-known here, too. “Take some kind of offense at having an Assaultron running a shop. Even worse that she has the audacity to act human.”

Deacon eyed him when they claimed a bench underneath the small overhang of one of the buildings, as much out of the rain as could be managed. Valentine seemed to be looking for some specific answer, but it was hard to tell what kind.

“Well she’s not really someone I’d want to argue the topic with,” he settled on after a moment. “Besides, I’d rather buy bullets from her than have to use them on her.”

Valentine grunted, leaning back and staring up at the stone building in front of them, the topic apparently dropped. “What d’you think Carly wanted Hancock for?”

“Hard to say. Haven’t noticed any acquired vices lately that he might be feeding, have you?”

“Nah, she avoids the heavier stuff.”

No real ideas, then. Deacon sighed, stretching his bad leg out and pushing his glasses up to hide the wince. If he had been some kind of sane he might have known better than to take up with some Vault-dweller who barely topped five feet and still wanted to take on the entire Commonwealth by herself. Would’ve made things a lot simpler for him, even if that just meant not getting shot in the leg.

If he had been any kind of sane he might have let Glory take her on instead, even with his dislike for her methods. He would have stuck to his place in the shadows, not with this woman who had the habit of charging into Raider dens, taking on some synth who didn’t have a reason for the Institute turning a blind eye to him, and who was now getting into the very bad habit of not actually telling him her plans.

But nothing about his life had ever been particularly sane.

“Nick, my man!” The call made them both look around and Valentine stood immediately with a grin as Hancock strode up, arms outstretched. “Been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Hey,” Valentine corrected, “I was here a few weeks ago.”

Hancock rolled his eyes, shooting a look back at Carly who was following close behind him. “Didn’t bother to drop in, did you? I suppose that’s her fault?”

“Not entirely; I did have some cases back home to wrap up.”

So Valentine hadn’t been lying about knowing the mayor. It was more than just a previous meeting, they obviously had some kind of history. Deacon pushed himself to his feet as Carly reached him and passed her the bag she’d left behind.

“Didn’t get many new boxes,” he muttered as she glanced inside. “Any decent calibers cost a fortune.”

“Not as bad as I expected,” she said, shouldering the bag with a shrug. “Just have to make sure to use that new one sparingly; I doubt we’re going to find many spares for that on the road.”

“It also weighs a ton, you sure you want to bother?”

“After seeing what a graze did to your leg?” The woman grinned, patting the rifle on her back fondly. “Hell yeah. I can manage a bit of weight if it means only needing one bullet.”

“You get shot?” Hancock asked, stepping up suddenly and giving Deacon a quick glance-over.

“Grazed,” he corrected. “Got it stitched up already, it’s fine.”

Hancock scoffed, arms folding. “Right, that’s what they always say. Not sure we got a doctor in town right now, but it might be worth asking around.”

Deacon noticed that he hadn’t bothered asking for a name or an explanation for why he was actually traveling with Carly in the first place. He wasn’t about to question that. Hancock knew about the Railroad, even helped them out by way of completely ignoring them whenever they had business in his town. They’d passed each other plenty of times, never actually spoken, so maybe Hancock knew somehow. He knew more than he let on, that was for sure, and even though Deacon wasn’t often involved in the work they did in the Memory Den, he’d been around enough that it was possible Hancock might have put some things together.

As long as he didn’t bring it up, it didn’t seem like a problem, especially if it meant fewer questions to answer.

“Our girl’s holding out on us here, John,” Valentine said, ignoring the quick glare that Carly shot him. “I don’t suppose she’s let you in on her secret plan.”

Hancock looked between all of them curiously before barking a laugh. “Didn’t know it was a secret,” he said. “Guess I can see why; think I’m gonna let her break the news, though.”

To her credit, Carly didn’t blink under the sudden sharp looks. She adjusted her bag and let out a slow breath. “We’re going to the Sea.”

“No shit,” Valentine said. The way he tilted his head made a small stream of water fall from the brim of his hat, which didn’t do much to help him look in any way intimidating. “Is there a second half to that statement?”

Carly hesitated, pressing her lips into a thin line as her grip tightened noticeably on her bag’s strap. “ _We’re_ not going,” she finally said, gesturing between Nick and Deacon quickly. “Hancock and I are. He’s agreed to help me out.”

“Radiation doesn’t have anything left to throw at me,” Hancock added, his grin crooked. “What’s it gonna do, take my other nose?”

The silence hung as heavy as the rain clouds above them. Deacon caught himself blinking too quickly and was grateful that his glasses hid it. He felt the strap of his rifle slip a few inches and used that to shake himself back, looking between all three of the others skeptically.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked. _Hell, I’m the liar here._ Carly wasn’t avoiding his eyes, at least, but she was also trying a little too hard to keep her expression clear. “C’mon, boss, really?”

“It’s not ideal,” she said, adding a quick, “no offense,” at Hancock who waved it off dismissively. “This needs to be done fast, though, and after those damn Gunners neither of you are in any shape to move out right away.”

Deacon shot a look at Valentine, not sure if he was searching for some kind of backup or just reassurance that he wasn’t the only one indignant about the whole thing. The detective wasn’t showing much -- _of course not_ \-- with his face blank and posture rigid. No help there.

“It’s just a graze,” Deacon insisted. “Hell, I can use a damn stim --”

“Which would take long enough to just get things put back together,” Carly cut in, “and then even longer before you can really run on it.”

“I’ve done more on worse, you know that.”

“Have you done it in constant radiation?” Hancock asked, his arms folding. Deacon hadn’t really noticed how unnerving those black eyes could get until they were staring him down, not reflecting that wide grin. “I’ve got enough chems to last this one here,” he jerked his head back at Carly quickly, “but it’ll be cutting it close. _Really_ close. I don’t need any, obviously, but unless you’ve got some secret stash somewhere, you’d be greener than a mutie within an hour.” He paused a moment, his grin turning to more of a smirk before he added, “I mean not that you’d have to worry about the hair…”

It was aggravating that Hancock was right. Logically Deacon knew that. He couldn’t keep a good pace with his leg still in the shape it was now, and even with stronger chems it would take at least a day, maybe more, to be back in functioning condition.

“Radiation doesn’t even matter for him,” he pointed out, jabbing a thumb over at Valentine who still had yet to say anything.

“And we don’t know what kind of damage he took yet,” Carly said immediately. Hell, she must’ve been building these arguments the entire way back. “Might take even longer than you to get back into fighting shape. Am I wrong, Nick?”

All three of them looked over at the detective at once, and he glanced between each face before sighing lightly. “Technically, no.”

“So you think this is a good idea?” Deacon demanded, and Valentine shook his head.

“Hell no. I think it’s completely idiotic, but I also know it’s pointless arguing with her.”

Deacon scrubbed a hand over his face, ignoring the water on the lenses of his glasses as he looked up toward the grey clouds. Valentine had a point, but it wasn’t something he’d like to admit. When Carly stepped closer he let himself wait a few seconds before looking back down.

“Look, it sucks, and I’m sorry,” she said, her voice lowering. She did at least actually look like it, which was better than just saying it. “I get it; getting in there is as much your mission as it is mine, but you know we’ve gotta do this fast. If this super mutant knows anything about Virgil, we can’t lose him, and there’s no telling how old that note was in the first place.”

He hesitated, glancing around quickly at one of the neighborhood watch that walked by, and then pulled on the start of a smile as he sighed. “You need to stop being right about things, Bullseye,” he muttered. “It’s getting to be a real pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, well you were the one who decided to drag me down into that bunker in the first place.”

Deacon gave a small conceding shrug, arms folding across his chest. “Been regretting it ever since.”

Carly chuckled. “Obviously.” She turned to Valentine, hands extending briefly in a vague questioning gesture. “Any way I could make you hate the idea slightly less?”

“Probably not,” he said, his good arm lifting in a short shrug, “but I know you’re going anyway. At least you’ve chosen somewhat decent company.”

Deacon wasn’t entirely sure about that; he didn’t have any kind of obvious problems with Hancock, but he also didn’t  know him well at all. There was a reputation that preceded that name, and though he knew not all of it held up, it was enough to make him wary.

Besides, it wasn’t like Carly was the best judge of character.

She’d taken up with him, after all.

Hancock didn’t seem like a fan of silences. He looked around, clapped his hands together once, and grinned widely. “Well, it’s going to be a wet and miserable walk regardless,” he said. “Might as well get this freakshow on the road, huh?”

“Right.” Carly tapped absently at the stock of her rifle before -- Deacon noticed she had given the smaller one to Hancock, even though he had a shotgun over one shoulder already -- and glanced toward the town’s gate. “We’ve estimated...maybe a week, yeah? Enough time to get there, find out what we can, and get back. I’ll come find you,” she nodded once at Deacon, “in the usual place. Drop by Diamond City after that, and we can decide where to go from there.”

There wasn’t much room for argument. Deacon hesitated before nodding, albeit reluctantly.

“Right. Just...don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, huh?”

Carly chuckled. “That doesn’t really narrow it down.” She turned to Valentine then, voice lowering, and Deacon let himself tune out whatever she was saying, taking the opportunity to step up close to Hancock.

“I don’t really need to say it, do I?” he muttered.

The ghoul barely even looked over. “I’ll consider the vague threat in effect.”

Deacon sighed. “Just look after her, alright?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Hancock said, “I do know what I’m doing for the most part. We’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t entirely convincing, but Deacon had to let it go at that when Carly turned back around.

“Both of you rest up,” she said. “I’ll see you in a week, hopefully with some answers.”

It felt wrong watching her walk out with Hancock in tow. That in itself was strange; Deacon still told himself he was more of a solo act, that he did his best work alone when he could get in and out without anyone knowing he had ever been there. There were still times he got the urge to slip away, get out on his own, back into the shadows. It hadn’t even been that long since he’d started travelling with the woman, but somehow it had gone from gathering intel to getting paranoid when she left.

Not like it was too illogical. The Railroad needed her. She was an asset and he needed to make sure she stayed alive.

He was reminded that Valentine was still there when the detective sighed quietly and sat back down on the bench. He was rubbing his right shoulder, the rain still dripping off of his hat, and Deacon found himself wondering whether rain was ever an issue with the exposed machinery.

“Guess she’s not wrong,” Valentine muttered. “Wouldn’t be worth a hell of a lot in this shape.”

Deacon grunted, caught himself scratching at the bandages on his leg and clenched that hand into a fist to still it. “Not sure Hancock’s the best choice for a replacement, though,” he said. “Doesn’t he, y’know, have a city to run?”

“This _is_ Goodneighbor,” Valentine pointed out. “Besides, John’s never done well being in one place for too long. He’ll wander off, get into a few brawls, but he always comes back. There’s people in place to look after things in the meantime.”

“You seem to know him well.”

Valentine shrugged his good shoulder. “Well enough. We’ve helped each other out plenty of times. He might have an odd way of doing things, but they’re usually pretty damn good things. Has a habit of looking after people -- lends a hand to anyone who’d rather keep their heads down.”

The last bit was accompanied by some kind of significant look, and it was one Deacon pointedly avoided. He knew prying when he saw it, even if it was difficult to tell what exactly Valentine was trying to pry for. Everyone in Goodneighbor kept their heads down, it wasn’t just him. “Still think she’s a bit crazy for taking up with him. As long as they come back in one piece, though, guess there’s not _too_ much to complain about.”

“They’ll be alright.” Valentine paused and then let out a quick breath. “I assume.”

“Won’t even know if anything happens, though,” Deacon noted. “Not for at least a week, and even then…”

“Hard to say if something happened or they’re just running late.”

They both mulled that much over for a few seconds before Valentine seemed to shove it aside, rolling his neck with the start of a grimace. “Well, no point worrying at this point,” he said. “Pretty sure there’s someone in town who know their way around machinery. Get patched up a bit.” He looked up at Deacon, the glow of his eyes prominent in the hat’s shadow. “You headed anywhere in particular?”

Deacon knew he’d spot the lie. He also knew that it was better than telling the truth, or even some version of it that might give any hints. They might have a red brick path leading directly to their door, but that didn't mean he was about to go talking about HQ more than necessary. Not like he’d be there long, anyway. Check in, get Carrington to look at the leg to make sure it wasn’t about to get infected, and grab whatever quick job he could find to pass the time.

“Not sure yet,” Deacon said. “Might start in Bunker Hill, do a bit of trading or something.”

It was surprising when Valentine didn’t immediately call out the lie. He’d picked up on it, Deacon could tell that much, but after a pause the detective just sighed, turning back to look at the Third Rail’s door.

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” he asked.

Deacon kept himself from frowning, blinking a drop of water out of one eye after it got past his glasses. “Don’t take it personally,” he said. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Seem to trust Carly.”

To an extent. She’d also proven herself multiple times as their ally, and she was the one decent shot they had at getting into the Institute. He wasn’t about to say that, though, and finally settled on a dismissive, “Seem to.”

It went quiet. The rain was starting to let up a little, but the sound of it dripping off the roofs was still steady in the background. It was only when Deacon was working out the best way to leave that Valentine spoke again.

“Look,” he started, voice lowering enough that Deacon had to turn toward him to understand it, “I know, alright? You’re both with the Railroad -- or at least you are and she’s been helping out.”

Deacon was glad that he’d had plenty of practice not giving any reaction to words like that. His expressions were careful -- slight confusion, a bit of disbelief, and then a quick laugh. “Railroad?” he repeated. “What, those guys the kid on the radio keeps talking about?” Valentine just kept staring, and _shit_ he’d be able to catch the lies, he always did. Deacon had lucked out this long; just because Valentine could spot the lie didn’t mean he knew what the truth was, but this was pretty damn specific.

Carly hadn’t told him; that much Deacon felt he could be sure of. She’d wanted to, but she understood the need for secrecy, the importance of compartmentalizing, she got it. So then how the hell…

“What makes you think that?” he asked after a moment.

Valentine scoffed. “Carly’s been on our side since she learned about the Institute,” he said. “Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that she found the one group either brave enough or stupid enough to try and oppose them outright. Brotherhood’s trying, but they’re a hell of a lot less subtle about it, and their views...differ a bit. As for you,” the yellow eyes raked over him quickly, as if running a quick assessment, “well, the secrecy was a good clue. No one lies that much without a reason, and there aren’t too many people around here who have a good reason.”

“Plenty of people want to keep a low profile,” Deacon pointed out. “Doesn’t mean they’re some underground rebellion.”

“No,” Valentine agreed, “it doesn’t. But there’s also the fact that you don’t forget I’m a synth.”

Deacon did frown then, one hand gesturing at Valentine vaguely. “It’s a little hard to miss.”

“Granted, it’s not exactly subtle. Still…” He paused, shrugging once. “It generally goes one of two ways: either people learn to deal with me being around because they can forget that I’m a synth, or they can’t forget and they resent that. Even if you don’t like me that much, it’s not because of what I am. That’s rare.”

“So what,” Deacon said, glad that he was at least managing to keep his face blank, “I don’t hate synths, so that automatically means I’m with the Railroad?”

“Am I wrong?”

_Shit._

Deacon turned away. Even knowing his eyes were hidden behind the dark lenses, Valentine’s stare was unnerving. Confirming it wasn’t an option. Valentine could tell when he lied, so that wouldn’t do any good. Not answering at all seemed like the only reasonable solution, and even then, the lack of an answer was probably answer enough.

There was the immediate instinct kicking in to leave, get out of sight and go back into the shadows. But hell, Carly _did_ trust this guy for some reason -- probably because she trusted everyone far too easily -- and unless he wanted to drop out of the whole thing entirely it was all too likely that they’d have to work together again. He wasn’t much of a fan of awkward situations like that.

He also wasn’t a fan of discussing the Railroad with someone he still wasn’t entirely sure about.

“What if you’re not?” Deacon asked, keeping his eyes on the opposite wall.

“I’m not going to teleport into the Institute and give them your address, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Valentine leaned back a little to look up at the grey clouds. “And I’m not looking to be included in any top secret meetings. But if you _are_ Railroad...it’s a good thing you’re doing, from what I’ve heard. Helped out a lot of people kinda like me. I can appreciate that.” He paused and then pushed himself to his feet, shaking some excess water off of the sleeves of his coat. “Besides, you two are painfully obvious trying to avoid talking about it around me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find a mechanic.” That made Deacon look over again as Valentine turned and started toward the Memory Den. “Guess I’ll see you in a week.”

Well. Shit.

Deacon watched him go, watched the red door close behind him, and then let out a slow breath, taking off his glasses long enough to scrub a hand over his face. There wasn’t the panic that he usually associated with his cover being blown -- maybe because he knew it had been blown a long time ago.

Valentine knew. Whether he got a straight answer or not, he knew, and he didn’t seem likely to do anything malicious with the information. It was the small remaining chance that he _might_ that still had Deacon on edge, because while he could trust Valentine to watch his back in the middle of a firefight, it was more than his life on the line when it came to knowing about the Railroad.

It was way more than his life. It was his entire mission for the past two decades. It was everything he had worked for, everything Dez and Glory and Carrington worked for, everything Tommy Whispers and Watts and the entire damn Switchboard had died for. All of that mattered a hell of a lot more than his own life.

If he were honest with himself -- and hell, how often did that happen? -- he _wanted_ to trust Valentine. It would be so much easier to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, but that was the kind of thing that got people killed these days. Valentine’s story about being tossed out hadn’t done much, and there didn’t seem to be many alternative options short of blowing up the Institute tomorrow.

So Deacon turned, securing the bag on his shoulders, tried to put the whole thing out of his mind for the time being, and headed for the gate. He was still limping; he’d have to get the wound checked once he got back to the church, pick up some more bandages to keep it dressed properly. The rain had stopped by the time he pushed through the gate back into the Financial District and turned east.

It was still slow going, but he was back in his own style of travel, sticking to the shadows and the dark corners, slipping around any sounds of life carefully. If worst came to worst, he could run or he could shoot, but stealth saved both energy and bullets.

He almost didn’t see the white markings. He nearly walked right past the rusted mailbox, and it was actually the smell of the wet paint that made Deacon turn. Usually they tried scraping off the dead drop signs after picking one up, and this one couldn’t have been around longer than a day or so. He did a quick sweep of the area before pulling the flap down and reaching in, only having to grope for a few seconds before catching the small bundle of paper.

Deacon read through it once, glanced back toward Goodneighbor, and then read it again. It wasn’t technically meant for him, but it was a simple request: get rid of hostiles that were getting a little too inconvenient for travel near Ticon. Technically the job for a heavy, but Glory wouldn’t have gone to take care of it yet if the drop hadn’t been picked up. It was exactly the kind of job Carly would take on despite all of his complaints.

The paper was crumpled in his hand and Deacon realized he was staring down the street toward the city he had just left with an incredibly stupid idea starting to form.

A really, _really_ stupid idea.


	7. ...the second one might be profound

He had said, “I need your help.”

Okay, so maybe it had been in a much more roundabout way than that. Maybe he had skirted the subject for a few minutes, pretending he didn’t know Amari while she had focused on repairing wiring and setting pieces of metal back in place on Valentine’s right arm. She wasn’t exactly a mechanic, but spending so long running the machines in the Memory Den and dealing with the interfacing between the mind and the pods...well, she was probably ideal for the job of fixing up a synth like Valentine. She was also kind enough to start off pretending she didn’t know Deacon as he hovered at the edge of the room, trying to find a way to pitch his proposal without actually saying the words, “I need your help.”

It might have ended up coming out more like, “You interested in taking out some Raiders for a good cause?”

Valentine looked up at him skeptically. He looked strange with his coat off, slung over the back of one of the chairs. Deacon had never actually seen him take the thing off before and after this long it hadn't really occurred to him that it _could_ be taken off.

“Not that clearing out Raiders is ever an inherently bad thing,” he said, “but define ‘good cause.’”

Deacon sighed. “Mutual friends. They’re having a bit of trouble with some supply exchanges.”

“For heaven’s sake, agent,” Amari spoke up suddenly, shooting a quick glare at him, “I haven’t been replaced with a spy since you were here last.”

“Ah, well that’s exactly what a spy would say, isn’t it Doc?”

She tutted impatiently, pushing her wheeled chair around to Valentine’s other side and tugging down the shoulder of his shirt -- it probably used to be white, but the Commonwealth always resulted in more of a light beige -- to examine the area below one of the missing patches of skin. “I ought to get a pay raise,” she muttered. “There’s been more traffic through here from you lot than actual customers.”

“Technically most of that hasn’t been us,” Deacon pointed out. “Put it on Bullseye’s tab if you’re gonna start charging, she’s the one who picks fights with Gunners.”

“I suppose.” Amari looked up at Valentine, frowning. “Speaking of which, how has it been? No other side effects?”

 _Side effects?_ Valentine didn’t seem concerned, waving it off.

“Been fine. Told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“Yes, that’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

Deacon let the silence stretch for a minute or two before clearing his throat. “So. Get patched up, then give me a hand?”

“Where did this thing come from, anyway?” Valentine asked, not entirely holding back a grimace when Amari gave something a sharp pull. “You were all set to leave a few hours ago.”

“Like I said, mutual friends. I can explain more outside of the city. No offense, Doc,” he added as an afterthought, “but we’ve still got very different jobs here.”

“Yes, you and all your secrecy.” She was distracted, frowning at her work, and leaned back after a moment. “Took quite the beating, didn’t you?”

Valentine scoffed. “Well, grenades will do that.”

“You’re getting too old for this, detective.”

“Tell myself that every day.” He hesitated, looking like he was considering the idea carefully, and then sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he said, glancing back at Deacon. “Let me get pieced back together here first.”

It was something. Deacon nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he turned back toward the door. “I’ll be around town. Just don’t think too long; this is kind of a time sensitive thing.”

He left before either of them could say anything else or, more importantly, he could start second-guessing himself too much. It wasn’t a big job -- much smaller than the first time he’d taken Carly out, though, granted, she had already found HQ by then. He could get a job done for High Rise, distract himself for a bit while Carly was gone, and get a read on what Valentine was like without their intrepid leader around.

Three birds with one stone, in a way.

Worst case scenario, he would just go back to HQ and send Glory along on the job that had been meant for her to begin with. Deacon had left a note at the drop letting whoever picked it up know that he could take care of things, and it’d be a bit embarrassing coming back to say otherwise, but he could survive that much.

He settled under what passed as a shack roof a little way down the street from the Memory Den. It wasn’t quite raining, but the clouds threatened more soon. He hoped the breeze blowing in from the southwest wouldn’t end up pulling a radiation storm along with it; the last thing Deacon felt he needed was rad-sickness on top of the hastily-stitched wound on his leg.

Carly would be pissed if she knew he was planning on taking on a Raider crew without letting it heal. Carrington might be pissed when he did get back to HQ and got it patched up properly.

Nothing new, then.

Deacon probably could have slept where he sat if he weren’t so inherently paranoid. Instead he ended up somewhat zoned out, alert for any changes, doing periodic sweeps of the area, without actually putting any thought into the process. He could -- and had -- sit like that for hours at a time, breathing slowed, barely moving. It came in handy when doing long bouts of surveillance.

With the sun still behind the clouds it was difficult to tell exactly how long he was there before the large red door opened again - at least an hour, probably more. Deacon made his eyes focus properly and stood just as Valentine spotted him.

Amari apparently knew what she was doing. There was no less tattered skin, no less dirt or grime, but Valentine’s movements were sure again and he wasn’t trying to hold back a wince every few steps.

_Makes one of you._

Deacon made sure to lean his weight on his good leg and his arms folded as Valentine reached him. “So?”

The detective had his eyes turned up, examining the leaking roof and peeling paint carefully. Then he sighed, both arms swinging out in a somewhat defeated gesture. “You’d go anyway,” he said, “and Carly’d be pissed if I let you get yourself killed.”

He wouldn’t go alone. Deacon could admit he was reckless sometimes, but he also had a very strong self-preservation instinct. No, if Valentine turned the offer down, he’d just go right back to the church and pass the work along to who it was meant for in the first place.

It was a little comforting knowing that Valentine didn’t have him _entirely_ figured out.

“That mean you’re coming?” Deacon asked.

“Sure,” Valentine said with a huffed sigh. “Guess I’m coming.”

He threw on a grin, clapping the detective on the shoulder before he could think better of it and immediately ignoring that it had happened. “Excellent. Already stocked up on ammo, can’t afford much else, so might as well head out; we can talk on the way.”

Deacon was already halfway to the alley before Valentine started to follow, and he could practically feel those yellow eyes staring him down. Synth or not, it was always uncomfortable to be scrutinized like that.

“I assumed you would’ve gotten that leg looked at,” Valentine said as they got into the main courtyard. Deacon paused long enough to glance down at it and wave a dismissive hand.

“Didn’t need it, it’s fine. Doesn’t even really hurt anymore.”

“That’s bullshit.”

They both stopped at the door, both turned to look at each other, and both of their faces were -- or least Deacon hoped his was -- unreadable.

After a second he scoffed. “It’s fine _enough_.” The door gave a protesting creak as he pushed it open enough to squeeze through. “Don’t exactly have a high-paying job to pay for a doctor in these parts.”

He had Carrington. And the only price for Carrington’s service was having to tolerate being glared and occasionally griped at through the entire procedure. That was manageable.

“You’ve got stims,” Valentine reminded him, pausing to make sure the door was latched properly behind them. “Those work just fine the last I heard.”

“Yeah, but why waste them on a scratch?” He hated using stims. The process of the repair was sometimes as painful as the initial injury itself, and it made his skin crawl -- both literally and figuratively -- to have the wounds slowly knit themselves back together. The drugs worked in a pinch, especially when the injuries could prove life-threatening and there weren’t really other options, but Deacon would gladly exhaust all other options first.

They got away from Goodneighbor the same way they had approached it, clambering onto the top of the bus and down the other side. There were probably faster ways to get where they were going, but Deacon didn’t want to have to waste ammo before taking care of the actual problem. Without Carly leading, he fell back into his usual patterns, ducking through alleys and taking whatever shortcuts weren’t currently infested with Raiders or worse.

It took Valentine a few blocks to say anything -- longer than Deacon had expected -- and he sounded very casual.

“So where we headed?”

Deacon glanced back and then looked around at the buildings. “Just across the river. Wouldn’t take nearly as long to get there if these streets were ever clear, but you know how it goes.”

Valentine grunted and went quiet for a minute or so, but apparently the answer wasn’t satisfactory. “So _where_ are we headed?”

It took some restraint not to sigh. Deacon stopped and did a quick sweeping look around. No Raiders, Gunners, or birds. Still made him wary being out in the open this long. “They’ve set up camp near Greentech,” he said. “You know the place?”

“Of course.” Valentine paused. He seemed to be considering which questions to ask and which to leave alone. Deacon felt he would prefer no questions at this point. “Your friends in there?”

“Greentech?” Deacon shook his head. “No, just nearby.”

“The plaza?”

“Look, I don’t usually…” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck with a quick sigh. “I don’t usually have company on jobs like this. I’m not about to go listing our safehouses to someone who hasn’t gone through orientation yet.”

Valentine nodded. He tapped at his pistol, the metal-on-metal sounding far too loud between the tall buildings. Distant shots echoed a moment afterwards like some morbid call-and-response. “So how’d you even find out about this whole thing?”

“Alright let’s…” Deacon let himself close his eyes for a second, running the words through his head in advance carefully. “If you’re going to help with this, you’ll practically be a tourist,” he said. “That comes with a few conditions: first of all, information is on a strictly need-to-know basis. Knowing about the Railroad at all is already stretching it a little.”

“You don’t tell your runners who they’re running for?” Valentine asked, arms folding. It didn’t look like it hurt to do that anymore, so that was something.

The question got a quick and dismissive wave. “Some know, some don’t. Depends on the need. That’s the point. Secondly:” Deacon counted it off on his fingers, resisting the urge to pace, “I take point. Simple as that.”

Valentine shrugged. “Your job, makes sense.”

“Thirdly: we might need to talk to some people. Fact of the matter is, I lie. I do that. Most of the time it’s for a reason, so just…” He raised both hands for a moment, eyes squeezing shut behind his glasses. “For the love of God, _stop_ calling me out on all of them.”

Valentine was quiet. It was probably a bad idea to be standing in the street for any length of time. It also felt wrong to just move on without a decent answer.

Really, this whole thing was probably a terrible idea.

A little too late to back out on it now, though.

“If it’s anyone but Carly,” Valentine finally said, “fine. Just the three of us, though, or just you and me, it’s gonna happen. Won’t badger you for the truth,” he added when Deacon started to protest, “ _most_ of the time. But I won’t just let it slide either.”

Not even two hours by themselves and Deacon could already tell it was going to be a pain in the ass. Terrible idea, really -- perpetual liar bringing along a detective who apparently wasn’t a fan of the lying -- but Valentine was offering a compromise. Sometimes a compromise could work.

“Fine.” Deacon rolled his neck once, pulled on his usual grin, and turned north again. “Let’s take care of some Raiders.”

It was a terrible idea, but hell, he’d thought of worse.

* * *

 "How many, you think?”

“Including the one they’ve probably got inside? Seven or eight.”

Deacon let himself grimace for a second, squinting down his scope and trying to ignore the now-constant pain in his leg. He resisted the urge to check the bandages, knowing it would just make Valentine even more paranoid. “I mean we took out six Gunners, right? And I’d say three of these idiots might equal one Gunner in terms of a challenge.”

“There were also three of us then,” Valentine reminded him, “and then you got shot and I got the brunt of a grenade.”

“Damn, buzzkill.”

Their vantage point was decent, at least, crouched behind the rubble on the ruined third floor of what used to be some office space. Tall enough to get a good view of the makeshift camp and let them talk quietly without being noticed, not tall enough to start the wind whistling in that way that made Deacon’s knees lock up. He was pretty sure he could take out at least two before the rest caught on, but then they’d wise up and it would take actually going into the camp to finish them off.

If Glory were here she would just stroll right in, minigun blazing, and somehow walk away without a scratch. She always insisted that being a synth didn’t give her any real advantage, that she had the same reflexes and tolerance for pain as any of the rest of them, but Deacon had never been too sure of that.

“Right,” he said after a minute, sitting up and adjusting the knit hat he’d pulled on so it covered his ears better. “We’ll call it eight to be on the safe side. Sun’s about to set, so I figure their current guard is getting a bit antsy to trade out. Mostly pipe weapons, one that’s just a plain pipe…” Deacon rolled his shoulders with a grin. “So my plan _kinda_ makes you sound like bait. Don’t take it personally.”

Valentine scoffed -- it sounded close to a laugh, though, so Deacon put that down as a victory. “I’ll do my best. What’re you thinking?”

“I’ve got the long-range,” Deacon said, patting his rifle twice, “and you’re faster than I am right now. You get around to the other side, wait for my shot, and take out the ones that run right for you. Volley ‘em back and forth a bit and then I’ll meet you in the middle to take care of anyone who holed up.”

He could recognize the look that Valentine had, the look that said he was searching for holes in the plan and finding plenty. It wasn’t any stroke of genius, admittedly, but at this point it definitely seemed like the best they had.

“Fair enough,” Valentine said after a minute. “Your leg gonna hold up?”

“Sure, it’s fine; doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey,” Deacon reprimanded, shaking a finger at the detective sternly, “what was rule number three?”

Valentine just rolled his eyes, double-checked the cells in his gun, and then turned back to the crumbling staircase. “Meet you in the middle,” he said. “Hope your aim’s as good as it was yesterday.”

“Always is.”

Deacon settled back in position, his glasses perched on top of his head so he could use the scope properly. The camp was pretty still -- they had likely just finished whatever counted as dinner, and most were either lounging at the sides of the makeshift shelters or casually roaming the area.

He spotted Valentine skirting the edge only because he knew what to look for. In other circumstances it might’ve been better to do the sneaking part himself -- that was his specialty, after all -- but with the combination of his bad leg and having the only rifle, this alternative could work.

Kinda had to work at this point.

Deacon waited until Valentine was on the opposite side of the clearing, waited a few seconds longer for him to get in position, and then put his focus into lining up the first shot.

Shoulders set. Inhale. Squeeze. Exhale with the recoil.

The first Raider dropped and he saw the flash of the laser pistol a second later. Good reflexes, at least.

Inhale, squeeze -- three down, and the rest finally figured out what was going on. It was quicker than he’d expected, which was both somewhat impressive and very unfortunate for them. Deacon let himself look over the area once more, vaguely hopeful that he might get one more clear shot, but apparently they also moved faster than expected.

“Shit…” He could still see Valentine’s shots, and he _had_ promised backup. It took a bit of effort to stand and he pointedly ignored the brief rush of vertigo before he turned and took the stairs two at a time. A terrible idea, really, but when a bullet hit the ground a few yards from his feet the adrenaline let him ignore that too.

It took a bit of maneuvering to swing the rifle back onto his back and tug the pistol free from its holster while still trying to avoid getting shot in the process. They were all terrible aims, at least. Gunners almost always had some kind of training; Raiders were usually idiots who found a gun and decided they could do whatever the hell they wanted with it.

The bullets were still very real, though. That was the unfortunate part.

They didn’t end up meeting entirely in the middle, but Deacon figured the half-wall that he and Valentine ended up crouched behind was close enough.

“Took your time,” Valentine said, swapping out his pistol’s cells without looking down. He was grinning, and as the wood splintered above them Deacon didn’t bother holding back a sharp laugh.

“Yeah, well the traffic was terrible.” Maybe it was because it was their ambush this time, but even without Carly and facing more people than before there was a hell of a lot less worry than the day before. Maybe it was just a different feeling doing work for High Rise instead of accidentally stumbling into a firefight. Maybe he was just exhausted and couldn’t be bothered to be concerned. “I got the left, you get the right?”

“Have at ‘em.”

Valentine stood faster than Deacon managed to; he felt his leg try to buckle briefly before correcting it and forcing himself to actually aim. The Raiders were shouting something -- but hell, when weren’t they? -- which just made it easier to pinpoint them. He was pretty certain at least one took a shot to some part of the torso that he could see through patchy wooden walls, but the returning fire forced him to crouch back down again.

 _Too quickly,_ he realized as his vision swam for a second. _Way too quickly._

He could smell that burning ozone that Valentine’s pistol left behind. The extra smell of burnt skin told him that the detective had gotten at least one good shot. Deacon rose above the wall enough to make sure no one was trying to sneak around to their sides. It was useful when the people they were fighting had absolutely no sense of strategy.

“Think we’ve got four left,” Valentine told him as Deacon reloaded his gun. “One took a shot in the chest -- probably not dead yet, but he’s not getting up.”

Deacon nodded, letting his eyes close for a few beats, forcing his breathing steady, and trying to listen. The remnants of the gunshots were still ringing in his ears. _Gonna be deaf in five years._ It was raining again, which seemed fitting, and the wind was starting to pick up more, bringing the slight tang of radiation with it. Because a rad-storm was really what they needed on top of being consistently damp all day.

“There’s cover about ten o’clock,” he said. “Better angle for that one with the rifle. Think you can distract them?”

Valentine’s eyes rolled, but it seemed more good-natured than before. “You really do love using me as bait, don’t you?”

“Hey, whatever works.”

They moved just a few seconds apart, Deacon forcing himself to his feet after Valentine ducked around the other side of the wall and got a few shots off in rapid succession. The Raiders were focusing on the lasers firing at them and it only took half a second of aiming through the holes in the shack wall to put a bullet in the head of one and the torso-area of another.

Deacon barely heard the beep. It was more instinct that moved him to the other side of the pile of wood and the bullets starting flying before he even fully processed the word _turret_.

The bullets weren’t making it through the wood, at least. Turrets always had a set amount of time before they stopped, enough to try finishing the target off but not waste ammo with endless shooting. Deacon was counting second four by the time he realized that he was on the other side of his intended cover.

Right between a turret and a shack with at least two pissed off Raiders.

Well this would be a stupid way to die.

Except maybe it wouldn’t.

He saw Valentine moving toward the hole in the wall that counted for a door, but it didn’t really occur to him what that could mean until the Raiders’ angry shouts turned more panicked.

Yeah, seeing a guy with parts of his skin missing would definitely freak most people out.

The shouts were cut off very abruptly, right as the turret stopped its firing. Deacon blinked hard, trying to determine whether the blur over things was his own eyes or the water on his glasses. He stood regardless, holstering his pistol and swinging the rifle back around in one motion. It took two bullets for the turret’s gears to grind to a halt even as it was preparing to shoot again, and suddenly the area was very quiet.

The whole thing had felt like mere seconds while it was happening. Now it felt like it had been hours.

He didn’t register the pain so much as he did his bad leg suddenly giving out from under him. Deacon managed to catch himself before he toppled over completely, but he did end up sitting a little less gracefully than he would have liked, and it probably didn’t look convincing to Valentine who stepped back out just in time to see him hit the ground.

“You hit?” the detective asked immediately, crouching next to him. There was blood spatter across one side of Valentine’s face and Deacon wondered how exactly he got that off.

“Nah, didn’t touch me.” Not this time around, at least. Deacon had managed to ignore the pain throughout the fight, but now that it was quiet and there weren’t bullets flying at him, it was becoming very, _very_ hard to push aside.

He had to blink past the rain and some fog around his vision to get a good look at the leg, and it was tough to really judge much; he hadn’t been able to get a new pair of pants so the lower half of the left leg was still soaked red. The rain had kept everything damp which might explain why he hadn’t noticed the new blood until he tugged the fabric away with a sharp hiss.

A lot of new blood. The stitches had been rushed to begin with, and now the majority of them were torn loose.

Well, that would explain some things.

“Huh,” Deacon muttered. “Would ya look at that.”

Valentine swore under his breath, twisting his pack around and rummaging through it. Deacon wasn’t paying too much attention to what he pulled out, but the sudden needle stabbing into his calf made him pay _very_ close attention.

“ _Fuck_ , Nick, what the --” His teeth clenched around the rest of the words and the grip on his gun was now turning his knuckles white. “I _told_ you I didn’t need a stim.”

“Yeah, well, you lie.”

Technically he wasn’t wrong. Deacon forced a slow breath, eyes squeezing shut while he tried to ignore the way the pain in the leg was now accompanied by the skin around the wound starting to crawl. It wasn’t exactly painful in itself yet, but it was really damn creepy. He let his head fall back against the wood behind him. It would’ve been far too easy to stay there but a quick and light slap on the shoulder got him to force his eyes back open.

“Alright,” Valentine said, “where is it?”

Deacon felt himself frowning, his left hand flexing to keep it from grabbing his leg. “Where’s what?”

Valentine rolled his eyes impatiently. “The safehouse, dumbass; I need to know where it is.”

“Like hell you do.”

“I _do_ , because unless you have any other secret medical services around here, we don’t have any other options. You’re -- hey.” He reached to tap at Deacon’s face this time, getting him to blink his eyes open again when he hadn’t actually realized they had closed. Deacon wasn’t entirely sure how Valentine could even tell with the glasses in the way. “You need to stay awake, first of all. Stimpak can close up that gash but it’s not gonna replace the blood, and something tells me you’ve lost a lot of it.”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” Deacon insisted, and he could tell that it was a terrible lie, especially by his standards. “Just been...bit of a long day.”

“Bullshit. You even eaten anything today?”

He had to think about that and it took more effort than it should have. “Before we got to Goodneighbor,” he offered after a moment. Valentine sighed.

“Figures. Look, safehouse has gotta be close, right? I can’t do anything out here, but they can help.”

At this point it was getting hard to disagree with him. The stimpak didn’t get rid of the pain -- even its efforts to piece him back together were starting to hit that painful point -- and he knew the way his vision was fading in and out wasn’t a good sign.

Still… “It’s not my call.” Deacon tried sitting up a bit more and regretting it immediately when his head spun. “I’m just the eyes, I can...vouch for people or whatever, but I don’t decide what they get to know.”

“Well I figure you better decide anyway,” Valentine said shortly, “because right now we’ve got a rad-storm moving in, the sun going down, and if you pass out or go into shock there won’t be a damn thing I can do about it.”

He was right an annoying amount of the time.

Deacon might have been more annoyed about it if he weren’t so focused on ignoring his skin stretching of its own accord.

Shit, Dez was going to read him the riot act for this one.

“It’s not far,” he said. The vertigo and pain were pushed aside for a second while he pushed himself upright. “I can manage...I’ll make it that far. Not my fault if you just happen to be with me when I check in, right?”

Valentine didn’t look totally convinced, but he seemed to accept that he had at least won the argument and swung his bag onto his back again as he stood. “Guess not. Just a convenient coincidence. Now c’mon, that lightning’s getting closer.”

Deacon hadn’t even been noticing the lightning. He held back a groan at the prospect of walking, but managed to get his right knee under him before a quick assessment brought him to an _extremely_ grudging conclusion.

“It’s…” He had to pause, jaw clenching more around the admission than pain this time, and then looked up enough to meet Valentine’s eyes. “It’s not gonna hold me up for more than a few seconds.”

It was kind of Valentine, at least, to not make him actually directly ask for help. Deacon accepted the offered hand and fought off the wave of both dizziness and nausea that resulted from being pulled to his feet. He could feel himself fading, even more quickly now that he was moving, and the survival instinct overrode any qualms about personal space. Valentine was a good bit taller than he was, but he managed to get one arm over the detective’s shoulders and resigned himself to some twisted three-legged-race.

“Not far,” Deacon muttered, feeling his rifle strap slip from his shoulder to his elbow and deciding it could stay there. It hurt like hell to walk, but Valentine was a lot stronger than he looked and they managed to keep most of the weight off of the bad leg even as it tried so hard to mend itself. “Shit, I’m gonna...feel this in the morning…”

“Just focus on not passing out, alright?”

“Aw, so you _do_ care.”

Ticonderoga was always such a prominent building, looming up into the skyline; it was frustrating just how long it took to actually get there. Deacon didn’t trust himself enough to speak again, and he tried to keep all of his focus on moving, on not letting his already-empty stomach empty itself more, and on the green lightning that was now close enough to feel when it struck.

He lost track of how much time actually passed. He lost track of quite a lot, and it was just mechanical movements and muscle memory that got him to the front door. Deacon had figured that someone would have seen them coming, so the figure standing in the shadow of the staircase wasn’t surprising, nor was the shotgun leveled at them.

“We were expecting Glory.” Well, at least he was to the point.

Deacon tried to get his eyes to focus properly. It was more of a challenge than he’d expected. Staying upright was more of a challenge than he’d expected. Once the owner of the shotgun actually stepped forward enough to get his face in the light, that much managed to click into place.

“‘s in the shop,” Deacon managed, falling back on the first thing that came to mind. He barely noticed Valentine’s curious look, and the grin he pulled on felt strange. “ _Heey_ , High Rise. Took care of some Raiders for ya.”

That many words was apparently too much. Even his rapid blinking wouldn’t get rid of the black that was creeping in on the edges of his vision, and High Rise’s face suddenly looked like it was at the end of some weird tunnel.

He barely noticed his other leg give out. The rest of Deacon’s conscious thought lasted just long enough to feel multiple hands catch him and to tell that one of them was definitely metal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that you can see my yelling about a lot of things, Fallout-related and otherwise, over at [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com); I always love to chat with people!


	8. I've been selling my name for the sake of who knows

The first thing he was aware of was the fact that his leg hurt like hell.

The second was the fact that he was starving.

It seemed like an odd thing to focus on considering the actual pain was really _very_ prominent.

Deacon tried to swear, found his throat was too dry to manage, and settled for a groan. Even that somehow managed to hurt and he let himself fade out for a few minutes -- or maybe an hour or two, it was hard to tell -- before some louder noise forced his eyes open on instinct.

That much was definitely a terrible idea, because the sudden tensing gave him a very sharp reminder of every single other part of him that hurt.

There were a lot of them.

“Well, look who’s still alive.”

The voice was familiar, but it took a good bit of hard thinking to actually remember where he was. When Deacon managed to get the energy built up to turn his head enough to see more than the grimy ceiling he forced on what felt like a grin.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he muttered. “How’s it been, High Rise?”

That was met with a wry laugh, and the other man shrugged off what looked like some kind of armored coat and came to stand beside the bed. “Ah, you know,” High Rise said, “Raiders being a bother, packages to deliver, some idiots showing up at my door half-dead.”

“What inconsiderate assholes.” Deacon squeezed his eyes shut again for a few seconds before looking around the room a little more carefully. He hadn’t been in the upper levels of Ticon often, but the multiple beds that looked a little cleaner than usual and the IV stand in one corner made it a safe bet that this was as close to an infirmary as they could get. “How long have I been here?”

High Rise gave a small shrug, shooting a glance around himself. “Little over a day. Once you were out we used some pretty heavy sedatives to give the stimpak time to work.”

“You _know_ I hate those, man.”

“Which is why you had to be unconscious.”

Deacon tried for a laugh, coughed twice, and groaned again, his hand pressing at his eyes. “What about Valentine?”

“The detective?” High Rise tilted his head up. “Up in the main room.”

There was a burst of laughter from a floor up. It was a strange thing to hear, really, especially in these days. He didn’t think he’d heard any kind of real laughter in a safehouse for a few years, especially not since the Switchboard fell.

Not an unwelcome change.

“How has…” Deacon managed to push himself up on one elbow, holding back as much of the grimace as he could. “I mean security’s been pretty locked down around here; you’re not worried about him?”

“You _were_ the one who brought the guy in, Deacon,” High Rise pointed out. “Besides, I figure if Bullseye trusts him he’s kind of alright by me.”

“She’s not exactly around to back that up, you know.”

High Rise shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t up to Dez’s standards, but we haven’t had a Courser pounding at our door already, so I doubt he’s about to do anything too awful. Anyway,” he added, “from where I’m standing it does kind of seem like he saved your ass.”

“Right, well…” Deacon sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and decided that was definitely enough movement for a while. “No one else needs to hear about that, right?”

“Oh, they’ve all heard all of it, already.” High Rise grinned as Deacon groaned. “At least twice. And we’re making sure to tell everyone that comes through.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, aren’t we all?”

Deacon snorted, looking around again and grabbing his sunglasses from the table by the bed. It was surprising that they were still intact after everything. He had to scrape a few spots of blood off of the right lens before putting them back on, and the darker tint was immediately a strange comfort.

“So…” He rubbed the area above the bandage carefully, trying to ignore the way the skin was still prickling. “While I assume you _definitely_ weren’t the one to do all this, what’s the diagnosis?”

High Rise pulled a face, gesturing in the general direction of the leg. “Ah, well...it’s not bleeding anymore, so that’s something.”

“Definitely preferable, yeah.”

“Other than that?” High Rise gave a short almost defeated shrug. “We’re not doctors here. Got some stimpaks, got some pain killers, but it’s just for the emergency crap that comes up, you know?”

Deacon sighed, glaring down at the bandages. “Which means it could be about to fall off and we wouldn’t know.”

“Fall off, probably not. I’d still check in with Carrington before you do anything else stupid.”

“Great, he’s gonna be thrilled.”

He managed to get his feet on the floor without wincing. Keeping all of the weight on the right leg seemed to be fine, but it took a few seconds of preparation to start to shift it onto the left. Nothing gave out this time and Deacon managed to keep from immediately cursing with clenched teeth.

The stimpak had done its job, at least, and accelerated the initial healing. Considering how sparsely stocked these safehouses tended to be, he doubted they had used another on him, which was definitely the better option.

“I know it’s worthless to say,” High Rise began, frowning at Deacon as he stretched out various popping joints, “but take it easy; you realize that thing cut down to the muscle?”

Deacon snorted, leaning over to tug at the shredded remnants of the leg of his jeans. “That would explain a lot, actually.”

“Only hope you shot the bastard that managed it.”

“Well Bullseye’s toting his gun around now, if that’s any clue.”

High Rise grinned. “Hardly surprising.” He tossed his coat over one shoulder and nodded toward the door. “Want the grand tour?”

“Not gonna confine me to bedrest or something?”

“Please,” he scoffed, “like you’d listen anyway. We got one of the elevators working, so you don’t need to bother with the stairs.”

Deacon’s laugh was more relieved than he’d intended. He glanced around once more, picked up his rifle from where it sat leaning against the wall -- considerate of them -- and swung it across his back. Its familiar weight as as much of a comfort as the sunglasses had been. “Lead the way, then.”

It took some effort to walk without limping. Not that he thought High Rise would care, but having an injury was one thing; letting the injury show was something he tried to avoid whenever possible.

“Where is Bullseye, anyway?” High Rise asked once they got into the elevator. “Thought you two were sticking together for a while. Asked Nick, but he wouldn’t give me anything.”

Deacon grinned, leaning back against the wall as the car started moving up. At least Valentine had learned that much. “She had something to take care of. Kind of time sensitive, so there wasn’t room to wait for this damn leg to heal.”

High Rise nodded, apparently accepting that the answer would remain vague, and glancing up at the dial above the door. It presumably used to say which floor it was on, but now the small needle bobbed back and forth on a whim. “Didn’t expect you to take that job without her. You and me, we’re not exactly heavies, are we?”

“Not in the slightest, pal.” Deacon tried not to stiffen too much when the elevator jostled a little, tried not to think of the empty space that was below them. “We didn’t really have anything else to do, though, and Valentine is pretty damn good in a tight spot. Figured the two of us could manage it, save Glory the walk.”

“Not sure she’ll thank you for that,” High Rise said with a snort. “Taking away her fun.” The elevator tried to give a quiet ding when it ground to a halt, and they only had to push one of the doors open a little further to step into the hallway. “There’s some folks here who don’t know you.” High Rise looked back at him before he turned into the larger room. “Nick hasn’t said much at all, though I guess he might not know much himself.”

Deacon nodded. “Got any synths holed up right now?”

“A few. Should be moving one out tonight.”

“I’ll handle introductions if they ask, then. Keep it vague.”

When it came to safehouses, Ticonderoga was certainly one of the nicer ones. Separate floors, individual rooms for the agents who stayed here longer than most, no need to have everyone crammed in one main area...it would have been a nice place for headquarters if it were less prominent and more defendable.

Deacon spotted Valentine pretty quickly across the room. He’d shed the coat, leaving it across the back of the couch where he was sitting with a girl who was clearly hanging onto his every word. She was most likely one of the new synth arrivals, judging by the lack of wear Deacon attributed with a life in the Commonwealth and the rigid way she held herself.

She was also completely _enamored_ by whatever the detective was saying.

High Rise paused, arms folding, and he grinned when he spotted where Deacon was looking. “He’s been great to have around,” he said. “Fresh out of the Institute, they’re scared of being caught, of course, but they’re also scared there’ll be no kind of life up here. Nick’s a pretty damn good example of scraping a living, even as a synth, and with him being so much more obvious…”

“High Rise!” They both glanced around toward an agent leaning out one of the far doors and she held up a stack of papers as if that were sufficient explanation. “Got a second?”

He waved quickly and shot a grin back at Deacon. “Let him know you’re not dead. And sit for a while, will ya? I’d rather avoid another blood transfusion.”

Deacon shrugged, taking quick stock of the room as High Rise left. It didn’t seem like he’d been noticed yet, which was ideal. There weren’t too many people in this particular room anyway, and everyone seemed focused on their own conversations or gun repairs or half-charred books.

He was good at not being noticed. Deacon skirted the edge of the room, letting a bit of limp into his gait just to diverge from what was normal. That, and it still hurt like hell, and limping was easier. He got a few yards to the left of the couch and stopped, leaning back against the wall and propping the bad leg up.

He was very good at not being noticed, and he was very good at listening.

“She was terrified, of course,” Valentine was saying. “And I mean hell, I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place, so I wasn’t exactly thrilled myself, and the Raiders were definitely pissed.”

“You shoot them?” the synth asked, and Valentine laughed.

“You’d think, right? But me against some six guys, all fully-armed, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. No, situations like that, you gotta think a little differently. Or,” he added, “you think like me and go with the stupidest idea that comes to mind.”

Deacon noticed that Valentine had gotten something of an audience with the others in the room, even if the rest of them were trying not to be obvious about listening. One agent sitting at a desk by the window apparently abandoned that attempt after an unnecessarily lengthy pause, leaning back and shooting him a good-natured glare.

“You’re gonna tell us anyway, Nick, out with it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Valentine waved them off with a grin. “I’m getting there.” He turned his focus back to the synth next to him, though he seemed to be making a point of letting his voice project some. “They’d figured out I was a synth by that point, if you can believe it, so I figured that might be able to work to my advantage.” Something like a smile started breaking through the girl’s perpetual wary look, which was an impressive feat with most of the new arrivals, and an accomplishment that apparently wasn’t lost on Valentine. “Still had the girl to worry about, though, and the usual response to something people are afraid of is a few bullets.”

“Let me guess,” she said, and the note of humor in her voice was far more than Deacon had expected, “you told them you were some horror story from the Institute?”

“Not quite, but close.” Valentine leaned forward a bit and tapped at his chest with one metal finger. “Told them I was a bomb.” His voice lowered and he seemed to be putting some intentional metallic edge to it as he added, “ _Self destruct initiated, ten seconds until detonation._ ”

The synth laughed. It was a surprisingly bright sound, and she seemed surprised by it herself. Deacon could see multiple agents look around and saw the smiles some of them were trying to hide when they turned back again.

It took him a few seconds to realize that he was smiling himself.

He decided to blame it on the medication.

“And that _worked_?” she demanded.

“Oh, like a charm.” The detective leaned back again, his right arm thrown over the back of the couch. “Hardest part was keeping a straight face when they fell over themselves trying to run away.” He pulled a face and dropped his voice again. “ _Beep, beep, beep._ ”

She laughed again, and Valentine grinned. There was something protective in the way he was looking at her, similar to how he looked at Carly when she was recovering from doing something stupid. Judging by the way the other agents were acting and the way High Rise had talked, this wasn’t the first time an interaction like this had happened.

It was definitely different. They tried to make the synths comfortable as best they could, and they made an effort to let them feel at least a little safe, but it was rare to see one with a genuine smile like this one had. Even more rare to hear one actually laughing.

It was best to judge people by their actions. At that point, Deacon felt he could be a little more sure about a few things.

“Can’t leave off the end, Nick,” he called, grinning at the somewhat startled look he got. “You get the girl home?”

Yellow eyes considered him for a few seconds before he chuckled. “Oh yeah, she was fine. My first unofficial case, really, even if it was a bit of an accident finding her. Turns out her dad was the mayor of Diamond City at the time; he thanked me by giving me a place to live.”

Another piece of history to tack on -- not that he could be positive it was true, of course, people still lied. Deacon gave a small nod toward one of the smaller side rooms and Nick turned back to the synth, saying something to her that was too quiet to pick up before he stood and wove between the scattered furniture to the door that sat crooked on its hinges.

“You’re looking a lot less dead,” he noted as Deacon tugged a tarnished metal stool out from one corner and sank onto it. “How’s the leg?”

“Not about to fall off, hopefully. According to High Rise I need a second opinion on that, but I’ll survive for the moment.” Deacon let out a breath and scrubbed a hand over his head, careful not to dislodge the wig. “So you’ve met the gang. What do you think?”

Nick glanced over his shoulder. His hands seemed to search for the pockets of the coat that was still in the other room before settling for hooking in belt loops. “It’s a different side of things,” he said after some consideration. “People out there are terrified of the Institute, and for some good reasons. Don’t usually think about the synths that might not be just blindly following orders.”

“That’s all we think about,” Deacon said. “You got brought into the mix sort of...abruptly; most tourists just see the information exchange or security precautions. But that girl out there --”

“B6, she said.”

“B6, yeah. Her and all the ones like her, they’re the core of things. Getting them out and keeping them out is what matters, and everything else is a means to that end.”

Nick scoffed. “Trying out your sales pitch?”

“Hell no,” Deacon said, waving a hand dismissively. “Just filling some gaps. Every group has their rhetoric, I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of it. Your choice in the end, just like it was for Bullseye.”

Nick grunted, looking out into the main room for a few moments more before turning back. “Why the hell you call her that, anyway? It’s not like anyone’s going to get information on someone who was frozen for two centuries.”

Deacon shrugged. “It’s a formality more than anything, I think. Boss insisted, and everyone’s got some name.”

“I kind of figured with High Rise. Pretty sure there’s someone who introduced himself as Fidget or something…” Nick’s eyes narrowed as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Deacon’s not your real name?”

He let himself laugh a little. “Of course it’s not.”

The silence was expectant, like Nick was waiting for an elaboration to that statement. That wasn’t something coming any time soon so Deacon focused on working out the phrase he was never very good at actually saying.

“Look, I’m…” He paused, managed a steady breath, and rolled his shoulders once. “Thank you. Saved my ass out there, and I appreciate it.”

Nick looked a little surprised, but he overcame it pretty quickly and grinned. “What, no cigarette this time?”

“Hey, I’m running low, you can get your own.”

The detective chuckled. “And you’re not even lying.”

“I’m a pinnacle of honesty.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, it really is.” Deacon leaned forward, arms resting on his knees and taking a quick stock of just how many things still hurt. There were still quite a few. He could probably travel, but trying to fight on the bad leg now would probably end up with a repeat of the other night, and he wasn’t too eager to pass out again. “Figure we need some kind of game plan. Still got at least five days before Bullseye gets back, maybe more, but I want to actually be there to meet her when she does.”

“Is it ‘we’ now?” Nick asked, and Deacon rolled his eyes.

“You’ve seen Ticon. Know a hell of a lot more about us than most people already. I have to drop in to get that second opinion and after all this, you have to at least meet the boss.”

“What,” Nick scoffed,  “you actually take orders from someone?”

Deacon shrugged. “She likes to think so, anyway. I mean we let people think she’s completely in charge, but that depends on who’s asking.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Nick seemed to get that much and just frowned instead of immediately calling it out. He folded his arms, head tilting to one side. “So what’s meeting the boss involve?”

“Just gotta go back to Boston. Right across the river by the coast.”

“Some kind of headquarters?”

“Well,” Deacon said, “more of a hole in the ground.” Technically not a lie either. “But it serves its purpose.”

Nick grinned again. “Staying as far out of sight as possible?”

“Exactly.”

It went quiet again. Deacon kept his eyes on the dried blood under his fingernails for the most part, debating what exactly to say and how truthful to be about any of it. He hadn’t realized how much of a buffer Carly had been until she was gone, and navigating this guy he had only just started to consider to trust was more complicated than he’d anticipated. It would have been easier if they could have avoided barging into Ticon like they had; Deacon had plenty of practice keeping up his lies and stories on the road, even if Nick could see them for just that. Having him meet parts of the Railroad -- and especially meet them when Deacon wasn’t around to have a little control over things -- felt a lot more personal than he was entirely comfortable with.

They were all one big dysfunctional family, after all. It was like suddenly being dragged into a reunion with a few of the weird cousins, if those cousins were also part of a secret underground organization.

“I know it’s pretty damn obvious,” Deacon finally said, “but secrecy is the only reason we’re still alive, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Nick nodded, looking back out into the main room again. “I’ve heard about those Coursers the Institute has now. Have many problems with them?”

Deacon remembered the escape tunnel. He remembered the smell of ozone and burning skin. He remembered setting up the church, establishing the escape route there, trying to focus on building and trying not to think, because thinking about it would make it real.

He remembered going to explore the catacombs, claiming he was looking for any other ways in, anything that might need reinforcing, going deep enough that he was surrounded by nothing but stone, well out of hearing range of the others.

He remembered shutting off his light, letting the blackness slip into every crevice, and screaming until his voice gave out.

“We’ve taken a few hits,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “The point is, _anything_ getting out has the potential to screw us over, so unless it’s with me or Bullseye…”

“I won’t go chatting about it,” Nick said. “I know the value of secrets, trust me.”

Deacon put on a little bit of a grin, glancing Nick over once. “We’ll see.”

He was pretty sure, though, that he was starting to. Whatever that meant.

There had been far too much in the way of personal discussion in a very short amount of time. Deacon pushed himself to his feet, not bothering to even try making the left leg hold too much weight. He did want it to heal -- getting to headquarters was already going to be a pain in the ass, and he wasn’t about to try to make it worse than it had to be.

“Well, we’re not leaving immediately,” he said. “I’ve been starving for like, a week, and High Rise actually has real _vegetables_ here.”

Nick laughed. “Where the hell does he have vegetables in a place like this?”

Deacon nodded upwards. “Got a little garden on the roof; he lets some of the synths take care of it when they’re waiting to move again.”

“Wonder how many of them have actually gardened before.”

“Yeah, we just hope it’ll come in handy for wherever they eventually end up.”

He wouldn’t admit as much out loud, but it was already somewhat easier to not have to think too much about what he was saying. Lying came naturally, sometimes unconsciously, but lying to Nick was a hell of a lot harder and required much more of a twisted truth than usual. It had been weeks of avoiding any mention of the Railroad whatsoever, and while just having it thrown into the open all at once was far from ideal it was also going to require a lot less skirting around the issue.

Nick knew about the Railroad. He knew one of their most successful safehouses. That was certainly much more than expected this early on, and not what Deacon would have planned for himself, but a lot of things had gone differently than he would have planned.

Carly by herself was, as PAM said, an unexpected variable. It made sense that anyone she ended up pulling into her mission would be the same.

It might not be a bad thing. There was always the chance that it _might_ be, of course -- he’d be an idiot not to consider how everything might end up crashing down around them, that was half of his job. Right now it was also his job to keep an eye on whatever kind of variable Nick might end up being and get everyone at headquarters in the loop.

Especially PAM, considering it was her _entire_ job to calculate for variables.

The kitchen wasn’t much more than a hastily repaired stove and crates of whatever food they had on hand at the time, but it was functional. Nick leaned back against the doorframe while Deacon started rooting through the supplies.

“So,” the detective began, making Deacon glance up with what he thought might be a potato in one hand, “what _is_ your real name?”

The question wasn’t anything he’d expected and Deacon frowned for a moment before laughing.

“Oh no, we don’t know each other _nearly_ that well yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faster update than usual, somehow. Some development stuff happening. And stuff.  
> Thanks to all of you for sticking with whatever this is turning into! I'm still surprised I've kept up the motivation for eight chapters and counting, but I'm definitely not complaining!
> 
> Reminder that you can see my yelling about a lot of things, Fallout-related and otherwise, over at [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com); I always love to chat with people!


	9. searching for smoke in a stillwater pond

Deacon nearly slept through the night. He was sure part of it was the last traces of the medication, but it was surprising nonetheless; he was tense by nature and normally didn’t manage more than a few hours before jolting awake. Usually the only place he could actually manage anything close to seven hours was headquarters, and even that hadn’t happened since they had moved to the church.

He supposed a memory of something like the Switchboard would do that.

That was one of the good things about traveling with Carly so much lately: being on the road, following her leads, it made things easier to put out of mind. Coming back to Ticon and being around so many agents with the knowledge that this building was definitely their most successful safehouse was a constant reminder of just how low their standards were.

Seeing everyone that was left was a very clear reminder of how many they’d lost. Deacon would rather avoid those reminders as much as possible.

That was the main reason he wanted to get on the road as soon as possible. He told Nick it was just because he got antsy easily when cooped up with an injury, and that wasn’t entirely wrong. He told High Rise that Dez was expecting him back for a report, and that was a blatant lie, but true to his word Nick didn’t say a thing.

“Got a bit of a walk ahead of you,” High Rise pointed out as they were finishing getting ready. “You sure you don’t want to wait another day? Let that leg heal better and you’ll probably move faster.”

Deacon waved him off, most of his focus on looking over his rifle. “I’ll be fine. Just a jaunt across the river, maybe a couple of ghouls to get rid of, and I’m good at avoiding the rest. Besides,” he added, “it’s not like I don’t have backup.”

Behind him, Nick snorted. “I’m not carrying your ass back here if something goes wrong, I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Aw, no?” The rifle’s bolt drew back with a sharp _click_ and Deacon looked back grinning. “Thought we were friends now and everything.”

“You’re still a pain in the ass.”

High Rise was rolling his eyes as Deacon stood, glancing up at the sound of something falling on the floor above them. “When did you say Bullseye was getting back?”

“I didn’t.” Deacon glanced into his bag once more despite that being just another reminder of how short-stocked he was on essentially everything. He could probably get some more medical supplies from Carrington, especially if he used the whole ‘currently injured’ excuse to his advantage, and Tom usually had some decent ammo in a back room. Everything else...well, Goodneighbor was close enough if anything got dire. “It’ll be a little while. Depends on circumstances.”

That got a snort. “Which applies to literally everything. You ever give straight answers to anyone?”

“Not on your life, pal.”

Nick was already leaning up against the wall next to the elevator door, idly turning his pistol over in his hands even though Deacon was sure he’d cleaned it at least three times already. Even with the unfortunate lack of ammo, it was always something of a comfort to know the guns themselves were in good condition. Constant traveling made it tough to do more besides basic cleaning and he always appreciated any chance to actually get repairs done.

His rifle swung into it’s usual spot next to his bag and Deacon double checked the pistol at his hip, straightening the leg of the jeans High Rise had provided over the fresh bandage. They were a bit too big, held up by the gun belt tightened a few extra notches and both legs had to be rolled up to stay off the ground, but they also weren’t torn beyond recognition. That was rare enough these days.

“We should get in before dark,” Deacon said. “You sure there’s nothing to send home?”

“Not at this point.” High Rise shrugged, shooting a quick look over one shoulder. “We’ve got enough runners available, I can send someone along if anything comes up.”

Deacon nodded, rolling his shoulders once. For as often as he left places, it was never any easier figuring out what to say when it was people he actually knew, especially considering the risks they were all overly aware of. Nick ended up buying him a few seconds, stepping forward and extending a hand -- his left, Deacon noticed, always his left -- that High Rise accepted without hesitation.

“Really appreciate everything,” Nick said. “You’re doing good work here. Way more than people think.”

High Rise chuckled. “Yeah, well I’d rather keep it that way. Keep a low profile and all.”

“Right. Well,” Nick shrugged one shoulder, “the synths appreciate it. They might not know how to say it, but I think they get how significant this entire process is.”

“At least for the time being, sure.”

Deacon could see Nick’s slight confusion, could sense the oncoming question, and decided to head that off before it could start. Not exactly something he was looking to explain at the moment, not this early on.

“Keep an eye out to the north,” he cut in. “There’s been a lot of camps set up around there, and the Brotherhood keeps trying to barge in like they own the place.”

“Always do, don’t they?” High Rise looked between them and grinned. “You two keep your heads down; I’d rather not have to use any more medical supplies on you.”

“Making no promises.” Deacon turned, pushing the elevator button and wondering if dealing with the pain in the leg on multiple flights of stairs would be worth not having to deal with a two hundred year old death trap. “See ya around.”

“Try to come back before you do another face swap, those are damn confusing.”

The elevator gave a despondent noise that might have once been a ding and Deacon shoved the door open before anyone could say anything else. He’d take the death trap over personal conversations any day. Nick followed, at least, giving a quick wave back at High Rise before the doors slid shut again.

The ride down was silent. Deacon tried not to notice the occasional jolt the car gave, only focused on the fact that they were getting lower with every second. That was one nice thing about the church and something he’d liked about the Switchboard; it was hard to get much lower than an underground bunker.

It was still damp when they stepped outside, but the clouds had moved on and the sun was bright. Deacon was grateful for his sunglasses, and actually for their intended purpose, which didn’t happen too often. He paused at the main entrance to the building, made sure his pistol was easy to draw quickly, did a quick survey of the surroundings, and then set off north, trying to keep the limp as subtle as he could. Nick seemed to have accepted that there wouldn’t be any specific directions given to where they were going and fell in step to Deacon’s right, tilting the brim of his hat down a bit to shade his eyes.

“So,” he started, and the obvious conversational tone made Deacon hold back a groan, “face swap?”

Right. That had slipped. Deacon let himself think it over for a few seconds before he shrugged. “There are some pretty damn talented doctors in this area. A couple are friends.”

“That doesn’t actually explain anything, you know.”

Whether he was starting to trust the guy or not, his determination to get answers was still frustrating. “It’s a...extra safety precaution, right?” Deacon gestured back toward Ticon. “The synths get out, they’ve got the Institute looking all over the ‘Wealth for them, it helps if they don’t actually look like they did when they left.”

Nick nodded, but he was still frowning a little like he was trying to work out a puzzle. “Fair enough. But he said before _you_ get another face swap.”

There was suddenly an interesting decision to make. He could simply tell the truth about it; Deacon figured it probably wouldn’t even seem that strange, he wasn’t exactly subtle regarding his need for secrecy. Or he could try to see if he could _actually_ get something by whatever detective skills Nick was using.

After all, he did lie. To everyone.

“So the handsome mug you see before you might not be entirely organic,” he said, shrugging. “I’m a bit paranoid, I’m sure you’ve noticed. Just think it’s safer to keep people guessing.”

Nick’s steps actually faltered a little. He turned to look Deacon over and Deacon couldn’t help but wonder if there was any way that synths could recognize other synths.

“You’re a gen-three?”

Apparently not.

Deacon chose the words carefully, keeping his eyes forward and his expression as blank as he could. “The Railroad has a lot of success stories.”

There was no sudden disbelief, no call of bullshit, and Nick just turned back, his brow furrowed. He might not be entirely convinced, but he also didn’t seem to think it was a lie. And hell, technically none of it had been. There had just been gaps, and Nick had apparently filled those in himself.

So the lie detector wasn’t foolproof. That was a bit of a comfort.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. The usual sounds of Cambridge echoed around them -- some unidentified growls, a bit of shouting, the river splashing to the right -- but nothing came out of the shadows for a challenge.

A patch of white paint caught his attention and Deacon instinctively veered to the other side of the road to check it, glad that Nick still followed without comment. The sign was starting to fade, brick showing through the paint strokes, but the small arrow in the center still pointed clearly enough back toward Ticon. Probably could do with a touch up, but it wasn’t like he carried the supplies around.

“So these are your people?” Nick asked from behind him. “Seen them around town for a while now.”

“Yeah, that’s us.” Deacon started walking again, making a mental note to mention it to High Rise when he passed through next. “They’re still pretty new; made up this set myself.” He shot Nick a glance. “You want a crash course?”

“Your boss be okay with that?”

Deacon scoffed. “You’re coming to headquarters. That’s usually one of the _last_ things people learn.”

Nick shoved his hands into his coat pockets, considering it. “Not trying to train me or something, are you?” he asked. “I’m not looking to start...running packages or whatever it is you do.”

“Nah, we’ll probably be a bit too busy for that anyway. But Bullseye --” Deacon shook his head once, “Carly, she knows it all. Figure you might as well get finished being brought up to speed.”

Nick gave a short hum and then shrugged. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

“They’re not hard. Little too easy for my liking, actually, I’ve been trying to put together some better ones.” Deacon paused, glancing over at a sound down an alley to his left. Spotting the waving antenna of a radroach in a pile of trash, he continued on. “It’s always what’s in the middle that matters. The one back there, that arrow, is the most obvious; just points to something useful.”

“Ticon, in this case?” Nick guessed, and Deacon nodded.

“Not too subtle, right? Gotta fix that. The rest are a bit better.” He traced the symbols in the air as he went, making sure to keep his voice low, just in case. “You get a X, something dangerous, probably best to avoid. A box is a cache, little pile of supplies we leave for agents traveling. Plus sign means an ally, like a tourist who’s worked with us before or even just a sympathizer. A lantern marks a safehouse -- don’t see too many of those -- and a water-drop-looking thing is a dead drop location, usually just messages to headquarters or basic news.”

Nick actually looked impressed. Deacon felt that was some kind of compliment; the rail-signs _had_ been his project, after all, and they’d worked well thus far.

“So finding out about that job from High Rise?”

He caught on quickly. Deacon jerked his head back in the general direction of where he’d found the message in the first place. “Dead drop. Not exactly meant for me, but I figured we could manage.”

That got a quick scoff. “Well, we weren’t killed. I guess that’s something.” Nick cast a sweeping look over the river, as if he was trying to hide what was something like the start of a grin. “You got a secret handshake I ought to know?”

Deacon shrugged. “Hasn’t really caught on. There is a sort of call-and-response, though, it…” He hesitated, doing a quick look around himself, listening for any extra crunching footsteps or the rustle of wings above the sound of the river. “Someone asks you if you’ve got a Geiger counter, answer is ‘mine’s in the shop.’ Every time. It’s not too hard.”

Nick nodded. He was apparently taking everything very much in stride, which made things easier. It hadn’t been too bad giving Carly the rundown on things, but they had also been in the middle of a job the whole time. Deacon still wasn’t sure whether her charging into some shitty places was her mixing up the ally and danger signs or if she really was just that reckless. None of the other things he’d talked about seemed to have been forgotten like that, though, so he suspected it was more recklessness.

He wasn’t even really sure Nick would remember all of it, with how quick everything was being tossed out. After all, the detective had gone from only knowing _of_ the Railroad and knowing -- somehow -- that Deacon was a part of it to spending a few days in Ticon and getting a hurried lesson on things that he might not ever actually need to use.

Well, it was like he’d told Dez the first time Carly had come crashing into the catacombs: they were in real need of some new friends.

Even with their slower pace, it didn’t take long to get to the bridge that was still actually intact. Deacon had heard a group of Raiders somewhere down a side street at least once, but if they’d noticed the pair by the coast, they’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Low on ammo and still favoring one leg, Deacon wasn’t about to complain about that. He’d had enough of barely scraping by in fights for a while.

“Let’s get a break,” Nick said suddenly just as they reached the bright blue pod that sat at the street corner.

Deacon snorted. “What, you getting tired? Only gone a few blocks.” The look Nick shot him was pretty clear, though, and Deacon sighed, eyes rolling. “The leg’s fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“ _You’re_ bullshit.”

“Let’s get a break.”

That got an over-dramatic groan. “Really channeling Carly today, aren’t you?” Nick didn’t look about to back down, though, and Deacon let out a huff of breath, turning to sit on the bridge’s concrete railing. His leg _did_ hurt -- not that he’d actually admit that -- and it was just some kind of stubborn pride that was keeping him from rubbing at the bandages. “We’re just asking to be on the receiving end of a headshot out here.”

Nick scoffed, leaning up against the railing himself. “You know, I don’t think there are nearly as many decent snipers out there as you seem to be concerned about.”

“Hey, it only takes one, right?”

His tone was light, but Deacon was still keeping his eyes up, watching the roofs to the north. He wasn’t a fan of walking out in the open; sitting still at the edge of a low bridge on a clear day...well, he really hoped none of the Raiders around here had gotten a hold of a gun with any decent range.

Nick pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then held the pack out. Deacon let himself hesitate before pulling one out with a quick nod that he hoped looked at least somewhat grateful. It didn’t exactly work to calm his nerves, but the motions were familiar. His eyes were drawn, not for the first time, to the way the smoke would trail through the gaps in Nick’s neck. He’d seen plenty of gen-threes smoke but the fact that Nick did had surprised him from the start.

“Do you actually…” Deacon waved toward him quickly. “Can you actually get the nicotine or whatever?”

Nick looked down at his cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. He finally shrugged, taking another slow drag of it before answering. “I don’t think so. Kinda hard for metal to form any addictions or anything. Just a habit.”

“What, just started for the hell of it?”

“A long time ago, maybe. Or Nick did, at least.”

Right. The conscience of a pre-war detective tossed into an Institute prototype, apparently. Deacon hadn’t actually considered that much since Nick had first brought it up -- they’d been fairly busy at the time, and he had been on painkillers which were never good for focusing. Carly believed it, that much was obvious, and at this point there didn’t seem any good reason for Nick to make it up.

“You say Nick like it wasn’t you,” Deacon noted, and Nick scoffed.

“Guess that’s some kind of deep existential question, isn’t it? Wake up two hundred years later, find the whole world’s gone to shit and I’m in this body that isn’t even really organic and doesn’t look a thing like he used to…” He’d smoked the cigarette down to the filter, as usual, and considered the burnt-out end for a moment before putting it into a coat pocket. “I’ve got Nick’s memories, for the most part, but they’ve never actually felt like my own. He’s been dead for centuries. I’m just getting by with what he left behind. Including his smoking habits.”

Deacon kept his eyes forward, watching the water roll by underneath the bridge. “Most synths on the surface have some kind of past -- or think they do, at least.” No need to mention where those came from at this point, didn’t seem an ideal time to discuss the Railroad wiping memories to replace them with false ones. “A childhood, family, years growing up on some farm or whatever…” He rolled his shoulders, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “At least you know the ones you’ve got are real.”

Nick’s shrug looked conceding, at least, and he glanced over. “Think yours are?”

Definitely thought he was a synth, then. Deacon wondered how long that one would hold up.

“Don’t have the luxury of fake ones myself.” He put on a sardonic grin and tapped one finger to his temple. “Look back that far and it’s just blank. Not sure if that’s better or worse.”

He was glad his sunglasses made it harder to tell when he was watching for a reaction. It was definitely a more blatant lie than the open-ended statements earlier, but if Nick could tell, he didn’t let on. Not that Deacon actually knew what he had done differently, why the hell most of his lies got called out but this one didn’t, but he figured he could sort it out eventually. At least it was possible.

It was quiet again, save for the usual sounds of distant fighting and the river beneath them. Deacon pulled a bottle of water out of his bag and let himself wonder how much radiation was left in it before he looked back over at Nick, one eyebrow rising. “Just ‘cause we’re friends or whatever now doesn’t mean these deep existential talks are gonna be a regular thing, right?”

Nick laughed. “Sure as hell hope not.”

“Good, then we’re on the same page.” Deacon downed nearly half of the water, stuck it back in his bag, and stood. “Now I’d rather not become _too_ obvious of a target out here, especially with Raiders a block or so away. They might get a confidence boost or something.”

“What, you don’t want to fight another camp off?”

“It’s not too high on my list right now, admittedly.”

They still kept the pace relatively slow -- not that Deacon would ever admit he was appreciative of it, but it was probably better in the long run if the damn leg was going to actually heal. He had to make a point of checking each open area for anything that might want to kill them; normally it wouldn’t be too much of a problem, but he wasn’t looking to fight anything at the moment, especially when he was still low on ammo. The path to the church was one he could follow with his eyes closed; even before it had been headquarters, he’d used it as place to lay low more than once. He just had to take a couple of small detours around a few people setting up a camp by the river and avoid the telltale moaning of a ghoul down an alley.

Still, the route was largely the same. Straight east down the riverbank and then an abrupt turn south into the narrower city streets. There were surprisingly few threats to avoid, and Deacon made a point not to think about that too much for fear of jinxing himself. Not like anyone would settle in anywhere near the church; a few had tried, but Glory cleared them out in very short order and these days it seemed most had learned. They might not know exactly who had claimed that particular patch of territory, but when someone toting a minigun strode in, he didn’t imagine they got to ask many questions about it.

The steeple was a welcome sight. Deacon did like traveling, and he knew they’d been getting some important leads with Carly, but it was still good to come back. It wasn’t easy getting information about what was going on at headquarters while he was out and the paranoia ran strong, especially these days.

“Home sweet home,” he said, tapping the cracked plinth of the statue as he passed.

Nick was looking up at the bell tower and then down at the red brick that led to the door. His laugh this time was almost incredulous. “So it _is_ a church? Thought that was just some other codeword or something.”

“Nah, this is…” Deacon paused and then shrugged. “Well, guess you’ll see, anyway. Keep an eye out for ghouls, they manage to crawl through the woodwork somehow and they like the dark.”

“You realize there’s a red line that goes directly to your front door, right? Doesn’t exactly seem subtle.”

He did have a point there. “Well we had to let people find us somehow, didn’t we? And this place wasn’t always the base of operations, that’s...relatively recent.”

The old door creaked too loudly for his liking when Deacon pushed it open, and he kept one hand on his pistol. If they actually had regular traffic through the church there might be less of a chance of ghouls making a home there. As it was, apart from the occasional runner, a whole two of them who came and went -- three, technically, now with Carly on board -- and the pest problem had time to build up between runs.

Apparently Glory had been through recently, though. The sanctuary was quiet, dust settled and undisturbed apart from the worn down path to the staircase door. He could make out a few corpses that looked and smelled more recent further toward the back, but those were easy enough to ignore.

“Ritzy, right?” Deacon said, leading the way down the stairs into the darker catacombs. The sunglasses usually helped keep his vision at least partially adjusted, so he never went in completely blind. One hand still skimmed the wall, more out of habit than actual necessity.

“Well you definitely won’t get many visitors,” Nick noted. His eyes seemed to be glowing brighter than usual, though Deacon wasn’t sure if that was just the change in lighting around them or a way to see better in the dark. “Pretty sure I’ve passed this place half a dozen times; never would’ve guessed there’s some kind of underground headquarters.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point. Like I said, secrecy is pretty necessary if we’re going to last through the month.” Deacon managed not to stumble once, which he always considered impressive with the uneven floor. The last turn was simultaneously frustrating and gave him a little burst of pride; there was no light cutting through the consistent darkness of the tunnels, which mean they had actually remembered to shut the main door after its last use.

That also meant he had to go through the whole process of opening it himself.

“Right.” Deacon swung his arms at his sides a few times when he stopped on the white lantern on the floor and then waved a hand at the wheel set into the wall. “Usually pick up the password along the Freedom Trail. Guess you don’t really need to bother with all that.”

He always had the thought of putting a handle of some kind onto the wheel whenever he came back; it was a pain in the ass to turn, though that was probably some kind of added security bonus. The gears grinding in the door echoed loudly through the tunnels and he only barely heard Nick snort behind him.

“Railroad? Your password is seriously Railroad?”

“Hey,” Deacon said immediately, “you try getting a coherent word out of those specific letters. We had limited options.” He stepped back as the stone slid to the side, sending up a gust of dust with the rush of stale air. “Besides, it’s a real accomplishment to find someone who can actually spell Railroad these days.”

Nick chuckled, eyeing the arched doorframe as they stepped through it. “Suppose that’s a point. This is…” He paused when Deacon turned to flip open the panel on the wall that started the door grinding shut again. “This is impressive.”

Deacon grunted, keeping himself from actually looking proud about it. Most of the security measures on the place _had_ been his idea. “Well, it used to be better. We’ve only settled in here recently, still working out some kinks.”

“Any particular reason for the downgrade?”

“Yeah, there was.”

Nick seemed expectant, but that was a common thing these days and Deacon ignored it, hopping up on the small ledge on the other side of the room and pausing by the next doorway. His leg still hurt but it wasn’t giving out on him. Nick was pretty damn good at taking things in stride. They had made it to the church without anything terrible happening.

It could have been a hell of a lot worse.

“Alright, so this…” Deacon waved at the door with one hand. “I mean we’re kind of a bunch of misfits. Have to be with this kind of work. Technically I shouldn’t be bringing someone in without Dez’s go-ahead first. There’s probably gonna be a lecture. Or seven.”

Nick nodded. “I assume if it were too much of an issue you wouldn’t have brought me along to begin with.”

“Well. We’ll see.” He let out a quick breath, fingers tapping at the worn doorknob. “Let me do the talking to begin with. Smooth things over a bit.”

Not like Dez could kick him out. They’d tried that before. A few times. He always just came back anyway.

Still, her lectures weren’t what he’d call fun.

The air that swept by when he opened this door was considerably warmer, even with the room further underground. The combination of terminals and multiple people always running in the room tended to keep it a little stuffy -- one of many reasons he liked getting out as often as possible.

Nick stuck behind him on the staircase. It wasn’t like it did anything to conceal him; most synths were a good deal taller than the average Wastelander, and the gen-twos usually averaged somewhere around six feet. Deacon could hear the usual bustle of the late afternoon work, Tom chattering about something to one side, Drummer Boy laughing, the metallic clicking that he associated with PAM walking around…

It was a familiar white noise. Much quieter than it would have been a few months ago, but he’d started to get used to having just a handful of agents to share a much smaller space with.

“Hey, Dez!” Deacon called at the bottom of the stairs, making sure his grin was as charming as he could manage. “How’ve things been?”

He could see her look up from her pile of papers, see her focus on him and then on Nick, and see the look of weary frustration fall into its usual place.

“Deacon, what the _hell_ are you thinking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had Spring Break recently, got a conference coming up, so I'm glad to get this done in between those. More of a point-A-to-point-B section but there will be fun conversations coming up! Thanks for all of your lovely comments so far, you're all absolutely wonderful.
> 
> Reminder that you can see my yelling about a lot of things, Fallout-related and otherwise, over at [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com); finding people to shout with brings me joy!


	10. I beg your pardon, I'm not looking for a cure

“You of all people should know the risks involved.”

“Nearly have stitches grown into the skin now, these will not be pleasant to remove…”

“...a reason we share information, just bringing someone in is _not_ something…”

“...running on this, let alone willingly getting into a gunfight…”

Deacon had his eyes shut, only half processing the two simultaneous lectures on either side of him. Carrington, as expected, was pissed that he’d let his leg stay as bad as it was without treatment. Dez, also as expected, was pissed that he’d brought someone new into headquarters without mentioning it to her first.

Both understandable points. He’d still heard very similar speeches from both of them before.

He was cornered, though, as Carrington had immediately sat him down on one of the beds in the corner that served as an infirmary. He was the only doctor Deacon knew that could lecture so effectively while also patching a gash that had apparently cut into muscle. The Med-X to numb it wasn’t really ideal, but it seemed like a bad idea to argue with it at this point.

He may hate drugs as a whole, but if Carrington was right and they would have to actually cut the stitches out, he’d rather not have to feel that.

Deacon cracked open one eye enough to look over to where Nick stood. The detective looked impressively calm considering Glory was standing a few feet behind his shoulder with her minigun in hand. He’d taken Deacon’s advice and was still keeping mostly quiet while he watched Dez likely grow another ulcer. No one had shot him on sight, which was encouraging, but other than Tom who wasn’t bothering to hide his obvious interest, they were all wary. Dez was just the loudest about it.

Sometimes Deacon felt a little bit bad, well aware that he was most likely responsible for a share of the white hairs that had started coming in around the woman’s temples. She really needed a day off. But hell, they all did, and after decades of this, it still wasn’t looking very likely to be coming any time soon.

“Is this headed toward a point,” Deacon cut in when there was a very short pause, “or will I actually be able to explain things?”

Carrington didn’t actually stop moving, but they both fell silent, and Deacon opened his eyes fully to glance between them. After a pause, Dez sighed.

“Fine. Whatever story you’ve thought up…”

“Not that you have any reason to believe me, but this much is actually true.” Deacon gestured over at Nick, ignoring Carrington’s frustrated hiss to _stay still_. “I mean I’m sure you’ve heard of the guy before now anyway. Kind of a big deal in Diamond City for some reason.” He heard Nick snort and just managed to keep himself from smirking. “Turns out Bullseye found him even before she found us. He’s been helping out longer than I have.”

“And that’s another thing,” Dez cut in. “I was under the impression you were keeping an eye on her.”

Deacon tried to laugh, but it was cut short when the sudden sharp sting of alcohol on an open wound cut through the haze of the Med-X. His jaw clenched around the start of a yelp and it took a few seconds of focused breathing to make sure his voice would be steady again. “She doesn’t really need looking after, boss. Got a lead on something, she went to check it out. Not too complicated.”

“A lead on what?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Deacon let his eyes close again, trying to keep his focus on the conversation instead of the fact that Carrington had pulled out a small scalpel. “Beside the point. She trusts Nick. He helped me with a job for High Rise a few days ago. Met the crew there, so I figured we might as well drop in here…” The rest trailed off as he grit his teeth; the sharp sting of the blade wasn’t unbearable, but he certainly wouldn’t want to deal with it without the anesthetic. After a pause he jerked his head toward Nick. “Ask him if you want. He’s the morally upstanding detective type.”

When there was an extended pause, Deacon looked up again in time to see Dez pinching the bridge of her nose, her mouth a tight line. She sighed, shook her hair out of her face, and pulled on her usual stern expression before turning to where Nick stood.

“Well then, Mr. Valentine --”

“Nick is fine, ma’am.”

Dez considered him closely for a few moments, arms folding across her chest. “Nick, then. I _have_ heard of you, of course; we keep track of the known synths in the area, especially ones that we didn’t place. The runners in the area didn’t mention that you weren’t a gen-three.”

Nick cracked a grin, shrugging one shoulder. “I suppose that’s a good thing for me; I do try to emphasize my work over the patchy covering.”

“But you are from the Institute?”

“Depends on how you look at it, I guess.” He lifted his right hand, the metal fingers flexing once. “They built me, I’m sure. Wiped me, too; I don’t remember anything about actually being there.”

“Haven’t managed to break those failsafes yet,” Glory spoke up. Her tone was oddly light, as if she weren’t aiming a massive gun at the back of Nick’s head. “Dunno why they wouldn’t have just snatched him back up, though.”

Nick scoffed quietly. “You and me both. Never had any contact until I met Ca -- Bullseye, and y’know, she attracts trouble more than anyone I’ve seen. They’ve never come after me specifically.”

Dez was frowning, though her posture made it look a little more thoughtful than suspicious. “And Deacon explained what it is we do.”

“We were in Ticon, Dez,” Deacon told her. “High Rise introduced him to some of the synths en route. It was laid out pretty clearly.”

She didn’t really acknowledge that, her eyes never leaving Nick as if she was looking for any kind of deception. The detective looked like he was considering his words carefully.

“I wouldn’t have been so sure about it a week ago,” he said, “but talking with some of the ones fresh out of the Institute, it’s pretty obvious they wanted to get out. You’re the only ones I know of trying to do that.”

Dez nodded -- apparently that was a decent answer -- and then finally glanced back at Deacon. “So I assume you trust him.” It was more of a statement than anything else, and Deacon managed a grin that was only slightly strained.

“Well I wouldn’t recommend giving the guy full access to all our information, but he didn’t leave me bleeding out in the street, so that’s a good start.” When the woman still looked wary he leaned forward, making a point of not looking down to where Carrington was working on his leg. “It’s like I said when Bullseye first came in: we need all the friends we can get at this point. She’ll vouch for him too, once she gets back.”

The basement went quiet. Deacon could see a few of the other agents across the room trying not to be too obvious about eavesdropping, Drummer Boy leaning against the arch to the stairway and not bothering to hide his eavesdropping at all, and Tom hovering a few feet behind Glory, obviously eager to start piling on questions but smart enough not to interrupt.

Dez had one finger tapping against her arm when she turned back. “Carrington? Thoughts?”

The doctor paused, but his hands were only still for a moment before resuming the work. “While I _certainly_ disapprove of skipping over the established protocols…” He sighed, dropping one bloody rag and grabbing a somewhat cleaner one. “If PAM finds no obvious threats, it does seem like Mr. Valentine could be a real asset, especially with newly escaped synths. He is a good deal more...obvious than Glory.”

Nick wasn’t entirely subtle when he glanced back at Glory, and she shot him a wry grin. He looked curious when he looked over at Deacon again, but Deacon ignored that, pushing his glasses further up his face as he leaned back on one hand again.

“He’d be harder to conceal, too,” he said. “Kinda tough to blend in like we usually do.”

Dez raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were for the idea.”

“I am. It’s still my job to point out what could go wrong, isn’t it?” Deacon paused, making sure his breathing was steady despite the now-constant burning on his leg. At least he hadn’t puked this time. As much as he hated things getting hazy with Med-X, it was slightly more tolerable when there wasn’t a risk of being jumped at any point. It definitely helped that Carrington actually knew proper dosages. “I’m not saying it’s an ideal situation, but can we really afford to be overly selective?”

“I’d say we _have_ to be overly selective.” Dez pushed a hand back through her hair, frowning at the opposite wall. She looked tired; Deacon wasn’t sure it was actually obvious to anyone who hadn’t been around her so long, but the firm set of her shoulders was strained like it was taking some effort to maintain.

Really, he hadn’t left her with many options. That was probably what she was most pissed about; Dez had always been less willing to see collateral damage than Glory was, and there wasn’t really any other way to be positive that no information would get out if she decided Nick wasn’t trustworthy.

Trust him or kill him.

Yeah, Deacon figured he’d be pissed about it too.

“Glory.” Dez turned again, her expression set now, and Glory nodded once. “Take him back to check with PAM. See what percentages have changed.”

“Can do.” The minigun didn’t waver as Glory jerked her head toward the small room through the nearest wall. “After you, detective.”

Nick went without protest and after a short pause Dez looked around the room, her eyes narrowing marginally.

“We’ve still got work to do, people,” she called, and at least two of the agents jumped. “Break’s over.”

There was a flurry of activity as a good half a dozen people tried to look busy. The normal noise of the room returned. Deacon barely felt a sharp tug and chanced looking down; it was difficult to tell for sure around the blood, but it looked like Carrington had removed most of what was left of the stitches. The guy was efficient, if nothing else, and had apparently given up on his lecture for the moment in favor of actually fixing the injury first.

Deacon could feel the hard glare before he looked back up, and he let himself grimace, meeting Dez’s eyes with a strained grin.

“So I screwed up, huh?”

“Big time.”

“But I _am_ right.”

“I’ll decide that after PAM weighs in.”

Deacon barely held back a groan, both because of her words and because Carrington had emerged from his rummaging with a stimpak. He ignored the latter at first, letting himself shoot a quick glare at Dez. “You know she’s not infallible, you remember Mercer as well as I do; I spotted that infiltrator before they were even on her radar.”

“She’s still been right more often than not.” Dez crossed her arms, and the firm expression shifted a little more into a glare. “And _I’m_ still making the final decision here.”

“We need a human element with this, Dez, and PAM doesn’t -- I _don’t_ need a stim, Doc.”

Carrington barely paused, his face hard as he tugged the cap off the needle. “If you refuse it, I cannot promise there won’t be a limp leftover.”

“You’re bluffing.” The doctor’s expression didn’t change, and Deacon glared down at his leg before letting out a frustrated huff of breath. “Fine.” Carrington was at least a lot more careful with it than Nick had been, and the fact that it was already numb let him ignore the actual injection and put his focus back to Dez. “You were fine with Bullseye.”

“She came in on her own; there’s a difference.”

“So someone I bring in personally is less ideal?”

“That isn’t…” Dez sighed, eyes lifting to the arched ceiling. “That’s not the point. I know as well as you do that we need more people, but withholding information like this isn’t an option.”

“Is it technically withholding if I just hadn’t had the opportunity to tell you yet?” Deacon asked, and the immediate glare was answer enough. When Carrington stood, moving to the small tub of water in the corner, it took some self control not to scratch at where the leg was already starting to itch. He couldn’t feel the skin actually pulling itself back together, but just knowing it happening was creepy enough. “So are you grounding me?”

“I damn well wish I could. We’re…” She paused, glancing over to where Nick and Glory had reemerged. Glory’s grip on her gun was a little more relaxed, so it had apparently gone well enough. Tom took the opportunity to intercept them, and his quick chattering gave Dez time to pull her glare back on. “A few months ago I would have. As it is, you’re one of three people allowed to come and go from this place, and we can’t afford to lose that manpower.”

“If it makes a difference,” Carrington spoke up, shaking water off of his hands as he turned, “there should really be no strenuous work on that leg for at least a few days.”

Of course not. Deacon almost groaned. He could practically feel Dez’s satisfaction as she nodded.

“You’ll need time to heal,” she said. “Four days, just work with tourists. Nothing further west than Goodneighbor.”

Deacon did groan then, rubbing one hand over his face. “So you _are_ grounding me.”

Dez snorted. “You got kicked out at least once and just came back. I think you’ll survive.”

“He screw up?” Glory asked, propping her gun up against one of the pillars as she rejoined them.

“Big time.”

“I feel like I’m at a disadvantage here,” Deacon protested. He tried to sit up a little straighter and blinked a few times to clear his vision of the slight blur the drugs were causing. “Nick’s on my side, right?”

Nick stopped short next to Glory, looking somewhat startled as he glanced between everyone else. “What answer won’t get me shot?”

“How are we looking?” Dez asked. She seemed to make a point of looking somewhat less pissed off at the world as a whole when she turned to Glory; it was more of her “calm and collected Railroad leader” look and less of the “about to wring an agent’s neck” look.

Glory gave a noncommittal shrug, leaning up against the pillar herself. “Well we’re not about to come crashing down in some fiery explosion. Probably. PAM’s still working out some of the calculations when we throw Bullseye into the mix, but nothing much has changed from when she first showed.”

“So we should be alright?”

“For the time being, anyway.”

“Did she give you the weather forecast, too?” Deacon muttered, not surprised when he was ignored.

Dez nodded, her breath slow and even enough that it was likely she had to put some effort into keeping it like that. She turned her attention to Nick, giving him another scrutinizing once-over. “Well then, detective, anything I should know?”

He hesitated, glancing once more over at Glory, then at Deacon, before shaking his head. “Not that I can think of.”

“You know if there is even the hint that you might be passing information to the Institute, we will kill you without hesitation.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Nick paused again, and his expression was firmer when he added, “There is one thing, though. I mentioned it to Deacon before, but...I’m not here to put on a uniform and start passing on messages. I’m helping a friend, and she’s apparently helping you. I like what you’re trying to do, but I’m focusing finding her son first.”

Dez didn’t answer immediately, and her silence was long enough that Deacon started feeling just a little worried. Then she nodded, just once, sharply.

“Bullseye has been doing good work,” she said. “A lot of good work. If you’re helping her with that, I can’t find reason to complain.”

Deacon scoffed. “I’m sure you could find _something_.”

“Well if he starts learning techniques from _you_ , I certainly will.”

“He’ll need a name,” Carrington said. Deacon hadn’t actually noticed him finish his work bandaging the wound that was still trying to pull itself back together, but the doctor was standing to the side now, drying off his hands with a towel that might have once been blue. “I don’t imagine there’s too much subtlety out in the middle of things, but when it comes to record-keeping, Mr. Valentine’s name is far better known than most of ours.”

Nick’s laugh was a little surprised. “Just go all in, don’t you?”

“Well, we’re pretty consistently pressed for time,” Dez said. She didn’t look quite as on edge, just more tired now. Deacon felt he could take that as a good sign. “Anyway, in a lot of cases the codenames are more --”

“More of a formality, yeah.”

“Alright,” Deacon cut in, ignoring Carrington’s noise of warning as he stood, still leaning heavily on the bed, “but I have to insist, if we’re giving the guy a name…” He glanced between Nick and Dez quickly, and the grin that he pulled on might have been a little crooked, but that could be blamed on the drugs. “It’s gotta be Buzzkill, honestly.”

Dez, expectedly, didn’t look amused. Glory at least cracked a smile, but it was actually Nick that surprised him the most, giving a nod that looked almost thoughtful.

“Y’know, that’s not bad.” He grinned at the immediate confused looks, hands going into his coat pockets with a shrug. “I’ve been called a hell of a lot worse, believe me.”

“There are much better options,” Dez said. “There are probably _hundreds_ of better options.”

“Well it’s like you said,” Nick told her, “it’s more of a formality. Not as if it’s going to be used every day; just have that for whatever records are kept.”

Deacon made a mental note to use it as much as possible in the future. Really, it would just be wrong not to.

At least Nick did actually have a sense of humor. An odd one, maybe, but the Commonwealth sort of demanded that much.

Dez just looked even more tired, pushing her hair back as she took a moment to stare up at the ceiling again. “I suppose it doesn’t technically...hurt anything.” It looked like it was hurting her remaining patience, but that went unspoken. “Fine. It works well enough.” She looked back down at Nick, her tone brisk again. “Most agents who work here stay here. We have very few who come and go like Bullseye does.”

“We have three,” Glory said shortly. “Including her, we have three.”

“I have no doubts that you’ll be another,” Dez continued, “even if it is just traveling with Bullseye. I don’t have a problem with that, but I do have to stress how important caution is. We’ve lost enough headquarters over the years and I’m not looking for this to be another.”

“So don’t bring any tour groups through.” Deacon tested a little weight on the bad leg, quickly decided against pushing it, and tried to make his leaning on the bed look casual. “We’ve sort of been doing the basics already, making sure there are no tails. It’ll be fine; he’ll be with one of us most of the time anyway.”

He could tell there were still plenty of concerns. Dez could probably find problems with the whole thing all night. Instead she just sighed, hands lifting briefly in defeat.

“Fine. Deacon knows the procedures, even if he does ignore them far more than I’d like. And he is _not,”_ she added, shooting a pointed glare in his direction, “off the hook for that. Four days. Let that damn leg heal.”

It took some effort not to roll his eyes -- not that she’d be able to see, but Dez could always sense that sort of thing anyway. “Yeah, I know, I’m grounded. I’m sure Carrington will personally kill me himself if he has to fix it up again.”

“It is a distinct possibility,” Carrington grumbled, turning away and going back to his desk in the corner.

That apparently signaled the end of their pseudo-conference. Dez shot Nick one last scrutinizing look before she headed to her own table, her fingertips rubbing at her temple. Deacon tried to stand straight, fought back the grimace when his vision swam, and tried to make what probably counted as a hobble look confident.

“Nick apologize for taking your job yet?” he asked Glory, keeping as much weight as he could on the good leg as he propped one shoulder up against the pillar she was standing by. “I tried to talk him out of it, really, but he just kept insisting.”

Glory snorted, hefting her gun into her hands again. “Well, we all know that’s a load of shit.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because it’s you,” she said shortly. She clapped a hand to Nick’s shoulder as she turned away. “Try to stay on Dez’s good side. It’d be nice to have another synth around sometimes.”

“I’ll do my best,” Nick said. He waited until she was across the room, then glanced over at Carrington who was engrossed in some work at his desk. “Well,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders once, “that was...something.”

Deacon shrugged. “Kind of a calm night here, actually.”

“Tom, is he always that…?”

“Yeah, pretty much; he takes a bit of getting used to, but he’s great with that tech.”

Nick chuckled, shaking his head. “Looks like. He’s already offered a full tune-up. Looked disappointed when I said Amari had already done it.” He paused, then nodded down at Deacon’s bandaged leg. “So you’ll be pretty tied up for a while, huh?”

Deacon grimaced, reaching down to scratch at the edge of the wrapping. “Yeah, apparently. Pain in the ass, but I’m in hot water already.”

“It also might help to not be limping everywhere you go.” Nick crossed his arms, one metal finger tapping against his coat sleeve. “I figure our girl’s got what, three more days minimum?”

“And she’s not exactly known for being punctual.”

“Right. So you’re healing, she’s still off with John...it’s as good a time as any for me to head back to the city for a little while.” He grinned, scoffing lightly before adding, “I mean the last time I was gone more than a week Ellie sent some random stranger out to find me, and that just led to a world of trouble.

It made sense; it also seemed like a strange concept, and it took Deacon a moment or two to realize that he’d gotten used to having Nick around. As frustrating as he got, he was handy in a tight spot.

Still, it did make sense. Nick did have his own work, his own people to check up on, and it wasn’t like the Railroad suddenly needed him around to function, so Deacon nodded.

“I’ll be up and running again in a couple days,” he said, dropping his voice to keep Carrington from overhearing when he added, “It’s not going to be four, belive me. You can always head back here if nothing’s going on behind those ‘great green’ walls.”

Nick nodded. “I might do that. If not, you both know where to find me.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the stairs. “That entrance faces west, doesn’t it?”

Deacon considered that, then blinked, frowning. “You’re not going back tonight.”

“It’s not _that_ far, I can manage fine.”

“Hell, I’m gonna sound like Bullseye with this…” Deacon sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Boston’s a pretty terrible place when you can see six feet in front of you. You’ve got a place to stay the night, it’d be kind of idiotic to go traipsing out there anyway.”

Nick’s expression was unclear for a few seconds. Then he laughed, shaking his head again. “Are you of all people getting concerned about my well-being?”

The eye roll was instinctive and Deacon scoffed. “Please, I’d have a five-foot ball of rage coming at me if I let you do something _too_ stupid. I’d rather not face up against that gun again.”

It sounded convincing enough. Nick still grinned, _smug bastard_ , and Deacon pushed himself off the pillar, pushing his sunglasses up his nose impatiently.

“There are extra beds if you want one,” he said. “I’m gonna get some sleep while these damn drugs are still making it easy.” As he started to limp away, he shot a smirk over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Buzzkill.”

He didn’t really have any sort of usual spot, since the schedules changed so much and he wasn’t really around enough to fall into the routines. He ended up claiming a mattress that was shoved into a corner near the entrance to the escape tunnel. It was a nice change sometimes to not need watches on shifts, to be somewhat certain that he would be allowed to sleep through the night without anything disastrous happening.

Didn’t make him any less paranoid.

It took a little effort to actually get down to the ground without bending his leg too much, and Deacon used the wall a lot more than he would have liked. He let himself lean up against it for a few moments once he’d sat, watching the slower movements of the basement at night. There was still plenty to do through the night, but people still liked to sleep when the sun went down, even if they didn’t see it very often.

He spotted Nick wander over to Tom’s corner, faded coat over one arm. That seemed like a good enough assurance that he wasn’t going anywhere immediately, and Deacon let himself slide the rest of the way down onto the lump that might have once been a pillow.

His sunglasses were left carefully within arm’s reach, and he rubbed at his eyes for a moment, holding back a low groan.

He already had Carly to keep alive, and that was a hard enough job on its own. He really didn’t need one more person to start being concerned about.

It was too late for that, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the 'slow to update' tag starts to ring true. Last few weeks of school (like, of all school for me, I graduate on the 14th) and it's getting hectic. Thank all of you lovely people for your patience! I've got a good chunk of the next chapter written out already, so it should go a bit faster than this last one. Things are gonna start picking up again real quick!
> 
> Come find me yelling about a lot of things, Fallout-related and otherwise, over at [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com). It is a strange and varied place.


	11. you can try to find a way to make another day go by

Nick was gone by the time Deacon actually woke up.

Considering how early it still was, he had probably just waited for it to begin to get light; Drummer Boy said he’d given Nick as good of directions as he could manage, a few extra cells for his pistol, and  _ yes _ , they’d sent him out the back door, security  _ was  _ still a thing.

It wasn’t surprising. They hadn’t been back to Diamond City for at least a few weeks, and Nick did have responsibilities there, too. That was most of the reason Deacon had come back to the church himself.

Still, he let himself be a  _ tiny  _ bit worried -- just for a few seconds, really -- that Nick wasn’t overly familiar with the area, and Boston was dangerous even in the middle of the day.

Just for a few seconds, though, because hell, the guy obviously knew what he was doing in a fight, and he was smart enough to avoid any that were unlikely to end well. Probably stop off in Goodneighbor along the way, get whatever Tom hadn’t been able to supply, and make it back to the green wall before night fell.

Deacon pushed the thoughts away with that; he still had responsibilities, too, even if they were severely cut for a few days. Dez probably knew he wouldn’t cooperate more than two or three, but he could be uncooperative in a way that didn’t undermine her authority for the rest of the agents around. He  _ had  _ been one of the deciding voices when it came to her selection for their new leader. He wasn’t about to throw that away just because she was pissed that he hadn’t followed protocols -- especially when they were protocols that he helped implement in the first place.

So he cooperated. At least for a while. It was easy to fall back into the routine despite being on the road with Carly so long, even if his range of work was severely limited. There wasn’t a hell of a lot that happened between headquarters and Goodneighbor, and even less happening within headquarters itself.

Deacon spent the first day at the church, reviewing their security and making sure everyone actually  _ knew  _ how security was handled. Having a red line leading directly to their front door did seem somewhat counterintuitive, but so far Carly had been the only one to actually get as far as opening the door since they had moved in from the Switchboard. It wasn’t clear whether that was because the security was tight enough or because no one had actually been trying, but either way there wasn’t much to change.

The escape tunnel was still holding strong -- PAM hadn’t reported any increased movement around the other side apart from the usual passing scavengers -- and the door looked as insignificant as ever when he did a walkaround from various angles. There was one radroach to get rid of in the actual tunnel, and Decon had to concede that Carrington  _ might  _ have had a point when turning on his leg a little too quickly nearly brought him down into the shallow water.

Not like he’d actually admit that to anyone.

He wandered further into the catacombs, just to quiet the paranoia that there might have been some other entrance that they had missed on the first five sweeps. The darkness and quiet had never been a problem, but it reminded him a little too much of their first few days setting up shop, and he left again quickly.

There wasn’t much else to do without traveling to the other safehouses, and that was apparently out of the question. All of it hadn’t even taken the full day. Deacon was already getting anxious to get back on the road.

One runner checked in as the sun was setting, dropping off a report from one of their smaller safehouses -- just the standard “hey, we’re not dead, could we possibly get more supplies that will help us stay not dead?” message, but for lack of anything better to do, Deacon chatted with the kid for a good half hour. Even with their systems, communication wasn’t exactly speedy around the ‘Wealth, and it was tough to get a good read on how other areas were faring from their vague reports.

Deacon was both pleased and slightly frustrated that there was nothing he needed to do to help out this particular group. They were doing as well as could be expected, having been lucky enough to not be hit in the mass Courser attack. That was probably just because they were too small to really get much attention, which, of course, also meant they tended to be too small to move many synths effectively.

Nothing he could do anything about a lack of resources.

Especially when he could barely go a few blocks.

He slept as sporadically as usual that night, waking a few times to make sure his gun was nearby, make sure the night shift hadn’t had anything strange happen, and the familiar hour or so staring up at the ceiling for no other reason than his mind refusing to shut off.

Carrington did another check on his leg the next morning. The first stimpak, back before Ticon, had been practically nullified by the doctor cutting out the leftover stitches. It definitely looked better now, though, with the skin able to patch itself properly and the small bit of muscle that had been torn starting to knit back together. Carrington stuck to his order of keeping away from strenuous work for a few more days. He didn’t seem entirely confident that it would actually be followed, but the sharp way he tugged the fresh bandage in place seemed something like a warning.

Dez sent him out to collect a dead drop nearby. He knew it went quicker than it would have the day before, knew logically that the leg was healing, but it was still frustrating as hell to be limping.

Deacon also knew that if he actually complained about it, he’d get six different people telling him it was his own fault.

And technically they wouldn’t be wrong.

“Pretty sure this is the most I’ve ever seen of you in one stretch,” Drummer Boy noted once when Deacon came back down the staircase -- slowly, for fear of inciting Carrington’s wrath if he tried otherwise.

“Well, I figure I should give everyone a good chance to see this handsome mug,” he said cheerfully, “y’know, before I swap it out for some old hag’s face or something.”

“Someone said you looked like a ghoul for a few months, how true was that?”

Deacon snorted, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. “Come on, I gotta keep some aura of mystery about me.” He tugged a folded envelope out of his pocket, waving it in Dez’s general direction. “Got your super-secret pen pal letter, boss.”

And so it went on like that: small jobs, occasionally meeting with the runners that were nearby, and helping a younger agent called Junction clear the foyer of the church of the newer ghoul bodies. Deacon had been ready to leave after one day. After three, the fact that Carly was officially running late certainly didn’t help.

Carrington took the bandage off on the fourth day. The gash was mostly closed up, and Deacon had to at least acknowledge that it would have taken a hell of a lot longer without the stimpak. The really deep damage had healed, and it was just the surface that was still coming back together. He could definitely work with that, and he got the impression that Carrington wouldn’t be as tempted toward homicide if Deacon actually walked normally again.

He hadn’t intended to cooperate this long, but by the time he could actually do anything substantial without starting the bleeding up again, Carly  _ should  _ have been back, and he wasn’t about to go traveling across the city and somehow miss her.

She’d just end up taking off on some other errand, probably. The woman was annoying noble like that.

Dez was surprised that he was sticking around so long. She didn’t say as much out loud, but Deacon knew it was rare for him to stay at headquarters for long, especially now that headquarters was so cramped. Not that he actually  _ enjoyed  _ staying -- the walls got very tight very quickly, and he made sure to do a circuit of the block often -- but there wasn’t really another option.

Nick came back on the fifth day.

That surprised everyone, including Deacon. He’d expected Nick to stay in Diamond City until Carly returned and they set off to do...whatever the hell they were doing next. At least three people nearly shot the guy as he came in; everyone who had access to the basement was already accounted for in the basement, and the sound of the door opening unexpectedly was somewhat terrifying to say the least.

“Wasn’t much to be done at home,” he explained with a shrug. “Only cases we’ve got right now have been cold for a few months. Figured I might as well meet both of you here, save you the walk.”

Deacon managed a quick laugh. “What, worried I might collapse halfway there? They haven’t amputated yet.”

Nick just gave a short hum, looking around the room as everyone else went back to their previous work. His voice was low when he asked, “She’s not back yet?”

“Not yet. Only two days over, though, don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

“With the shit she gets into,” Nick said, “I’m always worried.”

Deacon considered that and then let out a soft huff of breath. “Guess that’s a point.” He rolled his shoulders once and clapped his hands together. “Not a hell of a lot we can do about it now, though. As long as you’re here, we might as well put you to work.”

That coaxed out the start of a laugh. “Extremely exciting work, I assume?”

“You bet; we get to stare at  _ maps _ .”

As expected, Dez didn’t lay out every route they had at once. She showed Nick one -- a short one, not even the full journey, where the main obstacle was crossing a river -- and asked for opinions. Nick pointed out a few areas where the going might be slower but the cover was better, where to take breaks, and a more stable bridge that wasn’t actually on the map.

Deacon knew it was partially a test. They probably wouldn’t move any actual synths through there for a while, and Dez would have the area watched to make sure there was no extra Institute activity. Make sure Nick wasn’t passing along information.

It was smart. It was exactly what he would have done in her place.

It also didn’t actually give them much to do. Deacon hated down time.

He ended up showing Nick the area around the church, telling himself it was another security sweep when it was really just an excuse to get outside and stretch out his leg for more than a few steps. They didn’t talk much at first apart from Deacon swearing casually at the back door when it stuck on the uneven concrete.

It wasn’t until they were a block or so out -- still in the radius Glory had under control, but far enough that the steeple could only be seen on occasion through gaps in the buildings -- that Nick spoke up, casually, like he was pointing out an odd cloud.

“You’re not a synth.”

Deacon had nearly forgotten that particular assumption. He managed to look vaguely confused when he glanced up. “What makes you say that?”

Nick shrugged, then let out a slow breath -- apparently for effect since he didn’t actually need it. “There’ve been some hints. The way Glory talks...she’s the only gen-three back there.”

“Well just because I don’t hang out at headquarters often…”

“Plus, you lie.” 

Any attempt at a grin he’d been starting to pull on fell away It wasn’t like Nick was wrong. He’d been right pretty much every time he’d called out a lie, and he was right now. There wasn’t any of the usual annoyance or slight frustration that Deacon was used to, though, it was just…

Ah, hell.

That was  _ disappointment. _

Deacon pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes with a sigh. “Yeah, I do that. And apparently you always notice. Didn’t say anything about it initially.”

“And we see how far that got me.” Nick shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the sounds of distant gunfire. “I shouldn’t have believed it in the first place, but maybe I had been…” The words trailed off and he shook his head again, one hand waving. “Either way, you’re not a synth. If I wasn’t sure of it before, I am now.”

It wasn’t clear if Nick was expecting him to say anything, or, if he was, what exactly Deacon was supposed to say. They walked another half block in silence before Deacon settled on a question:

“Does that change anything?”

He didn’t expect to legitimately care what the answer was.

He wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to actually care.

Shit, this was getting more complicated than he liked.

Nick took his time thinking it over. His posture hadn’t changed the entire time, and he still looked just as casual as when they’d left the church.

“I’m not going to throw you to the Gunners all of a sudden, if that’s what you mean. At this point…” He paused, eyes staying firmly straight ahead. “I get the lying, especially in the interest of keeping people safe. Even if sometimes that’s just you.”

Deacon grimaced, tapping the grip of his pistol with two fingers. “Thought we weren’t going to do the whole existential talks thing regularly.”

“The point is,” Nick continued, “there’s gotta be some sort of boundary. You’re gonna lie to me and you’re gonna lie to Carly. I get that. But with the shit we’re already dealing with...there’s gotta be a boundary. Some things that you  _ don’t  _ lie about.”

Even the city was silent for a stretch then. Deacon wasn’t used to not having even something irrelevant to shoot back. The situation was weird for him, though; people got pissed when they caught him lying. After long enough, they might just be annoyed. Dez sometimes threatened to demote him, Carrington just glared, Drummer Boy rolled his eyes. All of that he was used to.

He didn’t know what to do with this...quiet disappointment.

He wasn’t used to it  _ mattering. _

Movement down an alley to their right saved Deacon from having to think up some kind of answer immediately. A low growl had him halfway to drawing his gun before he stumbled back as the quick blur of a scrawny mongrel darted past down the street, nails skittering on the pavement.

Nick watched after it for a few seconds, hand hovering over his pistol. When it fell back to his side, he rolled his shoulders once and turned back toward the church. “Think about it, at the very least.”

It wasn’t like Deacon had many other options on the walk back. Not that he came to any helpful conclusions, and he pulled on his usual grin when they got to the main door.

More important things to worry about at this point.

Not like he should be worrying about that sort of thing in the first place.

Nick didn’t bring it up again, either way, and Dez found plenty of new distractions very easily. They were looking at setting up a new safe house -- sorely needed these days -- and deciding on a location took far longer than the effort to actually set it up would. There were stacks of maps and reports to rifle through, costs and benefits to weigh, and it wasn’t normally Deacon’s area of expertise; he was the one who gathered that intel, not the one who pieced it together.

But hell, it was better than sitting around without  _ anything  _ to do.

That particular project carried over into the next day. Nick occupied himself by talking with Tom; it was probably a real testament of bravery to let the kid poke around in the exposed parts of his arm, but Deacon did overhear him firmly turn down an offer to try uploading some file that Tom insisted would make his aim better.

The basement was fairly quiet through the morning, other than Tom’s occasional excited ramblings. Deacon managed to keep his focus on the work, sketching out possible routes for each location they were looking at and trying to keep from scratching at his leg where the wound had finally finished closing. It would definitely scar, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t get that removed the next time he went under the knife.

“Hey, guys.” The familiar voice made all of them look around immediately, Dez with a startled curse. Carly was propping herself up by the staircase, looking simultaneously horrible and the most satisfied Deacon thought he’d ever seen her. She let her bag slip down, catching the strap just before it hit the floor, and flashed them all a grin. “Man, do I have some stories for you.”

She staggered then, trying to wave off Drummer Boy who was close enough to catch her by the arm, and Deacon dropped the map back on the table. He could hear Dez calling for Carrington behind him as he wove between the chairs and stone coffins to the stairs. Nick was barely a few steps behind, and he grabbed the bag and her rifle as Deacon pulled her arm over his shoulders. She wasn’t exactly heavy, but she also wasn’t very helpful and it took both him and Drummer Boy to get her to the bed Carrington had crammed in one corner.

She looked far worse up close. There was a long cut down the left side of her face from the hairline to just below the cheekbone, and it looked like it had closed up and been broken open a few times already. Currently it was bleeding from just a few small spots, but the dried blood made it tough to really tell how deep it was. Her left arm was held up against her chest, and something about the angle didn’t look entirely right. There were numerous other injuries -- dark bruises, other slightly smaller gashes, practically everything short of a gunshot -- all in various stages of hastily pulling back together, making it evident that they’d been a lot worse before she’d used a stimpak. Or five.

And that wasn’t even taking the obvious radiation sickness into account.

Carrington was already bustling around his work station, pulling out bandages and wheeling an IV stand around as Carly managed to pull herself up onto the bed.

“Anything more urgent than the rest?” the doctor asked, and Carly shook her head.

“Not really sure, it’s all...sorta blurred together. Could do for some RadAway,” she amended, “but I’m not about to keel over. Just haven’t had anything but the pills for a while.”

Carrington sighed, twisting around to pull another IV stand over before he began rifling through a plastic container. “Those are more preventative than anything else.”

“Yeah, figured that one out.”

“And your arm?”

She tried for a laugh, ended up grimacing,  and glared down at the arm  sharply. “Not entirely my fault. The bones healed, but they...might have been in the wrong spots.”

The doctor swore quietly, paused to pull in and release a slow breath, and then set to work.

Deacon tried to stay out of the way at least a little, but he stuck as close as he could at the same time, torn between the relief that she’d come back and the worry seeing the state she’d come back in. The basement was unusually quiet as Carrington set up the drip and Carly barely blinked when the needle went into her arm. She looked like she was wanting to say  _ something _ but couldn’t actually figure out where to start.

It wound up being Nick that spoke first, though, and he didn’t seem to be bothering to keep the concern out of his voice; “Where’s John?”

Carly glanced around before Carrington tugged her head back to face him again as he tried to wipe off the caked-on blood. “Back in Goodneighbor. He’s fine, we just split at the edge of town. Figured Dez wouldn’t thank me for dragging him in here, anyway.” Dez gave an approving grunt a few feet away, and Carly tried to eye Nick without actually moving her head. “Kinda surprised to see you here, actually.”

“Long story,” Nick said dismissively. “Definitely not as important as yours.”

“He’s right,” Dez spoke up. “Deacon said you were following a lead. Did anything come of it?”

Carly laughed, giving Carrington an apologetic glance when he shot her a glare. “Yeah. Something like that.” She ran her hand back through her hair, wincing and glaring down at the chunks that were pulled loose. “Nick was right, by the way; the Sea  _ sucks. _ ”

"The  _ Glowing _ Sea?" Dez asked, and Carly scoffed.   
  
"Yeah. Green hellhole. Hancock didn't have many issues, but we kinda ran through the Rad-Away faster than expected."   
  
"Virgil," Deacon cut in, "did you find Virgil?"   
  
Carly waited a moment until Carrington released her before she looked back around, glancing between Nick and Deacon. "Yeah. Turns out he was the super mutant. Plot twist, huh?"   
  
"Alright," Dez cut in, shooting Deacon a glare -- which he felt he could be a little indignant about, he hadn't actually been  _ doing _ anything -- and then stepping around the bed to stand directly in front of Carly. "Start over. Fill me in. What lead was this?"   
  
"We're looking at stitches here, Desdemona," Carrington told her from where he looked to be sterilizing a needle. "Not to mention having to fix that arm. Could the debriefing wait?"   
  
"No," Carly said. "No, I'm fine -- or," she amended when the doctor frowned at her, "I'm good enough for now." The fact that the cut down her face had broken open again and the blood was trickling down to her chin seemed to contradict that, but she turned back to Dez, letting out a quick breath. "I know how to get into the Institute."   
  
The room fell silent. Even Carrington froze, the disbelief obvious on his face when he looked back. He was the first one to speak.   
  
"How?"   
  
Carly rolled her shoulders, wiping at her chin with the heel of one hand and glaring down at the blood. "A scientist defected. He had exposed himself to that...whatever it is that makes super mutants."   
  
"The FEV?" Nick swore under his breath. "They have the FEV?"   
  
"Yeah, that crap. Apparently." She at least was starting to looking a little less pale -- or a little less green, really -- as the RadAway took effect. "Virgil infected himself and managed to get out, so he's been hiding ever since. Managed to keep his mind, somehow, but he's..." Carly shrugged her good shoulder and pulled a face. “I mean he’s about as big and green as you can get.”

Deacon couldn’t quite hold back an incredulous laugh. “Holy shit,” he breathed, “so that Gunner wasn’t crazy.”

“Nearly shot me when I came in,” Carly continued, her voice catching just a little when Carrington started cleaning the gash on her face with what was probably an alcohol-soaked rag. “Thought I was Kellogg coming to finish the job. Decent guy, though, and he’s about as pissed at the Institute as the rest of us, so he’s agreed to help.”

“And he told you how to get in?” Dez pressed. There was a rather wild light in her eyes that Deacon wasn’t sure he’d seen before -- certainly not since she’d taken over, at least. “We have a way in?”

Carly hummed a little uncertainly, her face pulled into an odd expression as she squeezed her left eye shut while Carrington measured out a dose of Med-X. “Well, not...I mean not  _ yet.  _ It’ll take some doing. But I know how.”

“Desdemona,” Carrington said, “I  _ must _ insist --” He was cut of when both women raised their hands and Carly then wiped the blood off her chin again impatiently.

“They teleport, right?” she said, ignoring Carrington’s impatient huff at her side. “That’s why you can never get a read on where they’re gonna be or how many will be there, it’s how the Coursers show up so fast and vanish the next second. But they’ve gotta be linked in somehow, see?” She kept talking faster, and it was surprising she wasn’t stumbling over every other word. “They have to have some connection back, so the Coursers have got these chips installed in their skulls that links to the Institute, lets them come and go whenever. We get the information off of that, Virgil says he can put together some kind of blueprints and we can build our  _ own  _ teleporter, just pop right into their labs ourselves.”

She was a little out of breath by the end, and Carrington ended up ignoring the protests and injecting the Med-X into her shoulder anyway. It was dead silent after that. Every other agent had gathered in a rough semi-circle around them, some openly gaping. Distantly, Deacon noticed that even PAM had emerged to find out what the commotion was about, and he wondered if she was already running calculations.

“A teleporter,” Dez repeated. It wasn’t really a question, but Carly nodded. “We can  _ teleport  _ into the Institute?”

“I mean Virgil thinks so, anyway -- he wasn’t in applied science, he was biochem, but he still…” Carly blinked twice. The drugs were kicking in quickly. “He knows a lot.”

“And you trust him?”

Another one-shouldered shrug. “I mean do we really have another option at this point?”

“Hold up,” Deacon cut in, “I feel like we’re ignoring a  _ very  _ relevant part of this. You said this chip comes out of a Courser; something tells me they’re not going to just cooperate with a bit of open-head surgery. You’re telling me we have to track down and kill a  _ Courser? _ ”

Carly blinked up at him and then cracked a lopsided grin. “Right, forgot to mention...Nick, the left side pocket of my bag?”

All eyes snapped over to where Nick stood, and he frowned before undoing the strap that held the pocket closed, using his right hand to carefully tug out the folded cloth inside. There were a few hushed murmurs when he revealed the small piece of machinery that was wrapped in it. It looked a little like the synth components that they had seen before, but somewhat larger, with a clear dome on one end. There was still dried blood caking most of it, and a few chunks of something Deacon didn’t want to guess at clinging to the edges.

“Holy shit,” he found himself whispering. Then again, slightly louder as he paced a few steps to once side and then back, “Holy shit, holy  _ shit _ , Dez, are you seeing this?”

“You killed a Courser?” Dez demanded. “You purposefully tracked down a Courser and actually  _ killed  _ it?”

“Yeah, well…” Carly winced at some unseen pain, both eyes closing for a moment. “Virgil told me how to find one, so I figured I might as well go for it. Why do you think I’m late? Kinda had to hole up for a couple of days, rest up before I could get over here.”

“You went straight from the Glowing Sea to killing one of those things?” Nick asked, still staring down at the chip in his hand. “How the hell did you convince John of something like that?”

She actually looked guilty for a split second. “He didn’t actually...know. Like I said, we sorta split at the edge of town. Figured he’d try to talk me out of it.”

Nick’s eyes were back on her in a split second and wide with disbelief. “And you didn’t come to get us?”

“I  _ knew  _ you’d try to talk me out of it.” Her voice was starting to get somewhat heavier, and Carrington had moved in with the needle, starting to sew the top of the cut back together while his growls to  _ stay still  _ were ignored. “Listen, I did it. Make a great story at some point, but all that matters right now is that I did it, and we can start figuring out what the hell that chip says.”

Dez hesitated, but only for a second before she held out her hand toward Nick and he gave her the bundle of cloth. “We’ll discuss your choices of tactics later,” she said, trying to scrape some of the blood off of one end of the metal with a fingernail. “In the meantime...building that teleporter will be invaluable if we can pull it off, but even if that doesn’t work, the information on this thing could completely change the way we handle the Institute. If we need to do further work on it…”

Carly waved her good hand vaguely. “It’s yours, Dez. Not like I’ll have much other use for it anyway.”

Dez looked satisfied, and there was something that might have been the start of an actual grin breaking through when she turned toward the small crowd that had gathered. “Tom, we have some work for you.”

A good number of the other agents followed those two to Tom’s corner, and the rest dispersed to whisper excitedly to each other. Nick stepped up to Deacon’s side next to the bed, letting the bag he still held slip to the ground.

“You went after one of those things alone,” he said, his tone more weary than accusing. “Probably already irradiated to hell, too, and you fought one alone.”

“Well, I caught him by surprise. He was kinda...busy torturing Gunners, so…” Carly paused, her jaw clenching when Carrington pulled a stitch tight, and then continued when he prepared the next. “It wasn’t  _ that  _ awful.”

“Bullshit,” Nick said immediately just as Deacon snorted.

“Alright, so it…” She considered the words, let another stitch go in, and then sighed. “It was close. He was in Greentech and I had to hole up for a few days because I would’ve bled out on the trip back without giving the stims a chance to work. But I made it back.”

“And you look like hell  _ now _ ,” Deacon pointed out. “She looks like hell, right Doc?” Carrington spared him a quick glare before keeping to his work without a word. “I mean  _ Jesus, _ Bullseye, a fucking  _ Courser _ ? Next time you go looking for death incarnate, at least invite along some friends.”

She scoffed quietly. The way her eyes kept staying shut a little too long after each blink spoke more toward the Med-X really taking effect than the pain being too intense, but she did pry them open long enough to glance between Nick and Deacon quickly. “Speaking of, never told me what the deal is here. Decided Nick’s trustworthy enough to bring home, huh?”

The subject change was obvious, but a silent consensus let it slide and Nick chuckled.

“Yeah, they call me Buzzkill now.”

“Deacon’s idea?”

“Who else?”

“Yeah, we’re best buds these days,” Deacon said, slinging an arm around Nick’s shoulders that was shrugged off with an eye roll. “Having deep existential talks and everything, you’ve missed a lot.”

Carly seemed to be trying to grin, and she swayed a little before her good arm caught her. “About damn time.”

“Unless you want these stitches in sideways, agent,” Carrington cut in, “I’d advise you to stop talking now.”

She nodded once, paused, and then laughed. “Maybe I should leave more often.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read [this thing here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8417266) if you want to see how Carly ended up in this state. She didn't have a fun time.
> 
> Come find me yelling about a lot of things, Fallout-related and otherwise, over at [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com). I've actually chatted with a few people about this fic already and it made me very happy, I love rambling about this thing and other things as well.
> 
> And before I shut up, I need to plug a story real bad. If you like this pairing that I'm taking my sweet time to actually build up to, if you like Deacon, if you like stories that lead up to the game and set up the events that the Survivor stumbles into, and if you are as intrigued as I was by the idea of Deacon being the Lone Wanderer, please go check out [Insert Something Shakespearean Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6500950). It is long, it is still being updated with fabulous chapters, and it's an absolute joy that deserves so much more love.
> 
> Hope all of those who are finishing up the semester finish strong, and all the rest of you have wonderful finals-free weeks ahead!


	12. and I'll return to my beautiful city

Carly was out for a little under a full day once Carrington finally convinced her to sleep. Deacon was pretty sure the pain-killer she’d been given was closer to a strong sedative, but hell, she needed it. Tom took about that long to crack through the security on the chip. Drummer Boy made sure to put some food onto the desk a few times -- Tom never really acknowledged it, but he had the habit of eating whatever was in arm’s reach when he got focused -- and Dez made sure to slip a box of Mentats next to that.

Deacon knew it was a bad idea to keep encouraging the kid’s habit. He also knew they didn’t have much of a choice. They needed his best work, and Tinker Tom did his best work with the pills. With this sort of task, though, Deacon made a point of making sure he actually ate and didn’t mistake the Mentats for a handful of nuts.

Nick had put himself in charge of keeping an eye on Carly while she slept. He was the only one who didn’t need sleep himself, so no one argued, but Carrington did give firm instructions to get him if anything happened.

Deacon could hear her swearing from across the room when she finally woke up sometime around dawn. He clapped Tom on the shoulder, ignored the fact that Tom didn’t seem to notice, and crossed between the stone slabs and chairs to the moth-eaten mattress she was trying to sit up on. It was a difficult task, considering her left arm was still at an awkward angle and she was covering her eyes with her right.

“Easy,” Nick was muttering, kneeling by the bed and keeping her from getting up any further than on one elbow. “Probably a dumb question, but how’re you feeling?”

Carly’s left eye was squinting, pulled half shut by the stitches, and it made her look vaguely disapproving when she looked around at them. Then she groaned, scratching at the cut before wincing and letting her hand drop again. “Like shit,” she grumbled. “Like a moose used me for a tap-dancing floor.”

Nick didn’t ask what a moose was, so Deacon decided to ignore it. Her eyes were focusing again and she looked less likely to pass out, so there was improvement. She was also glaring down at her crooked arm and suddenly stood, ignoring Nick’s immediate protests.

“Hey, Carrington!” She stumbled once, caught herself on the wall, and the next few steps were much more certain. “I appreciate the whole saving my life deal, but I kinda expected someone to fix this damn arm  _ before  _ I woke up.”

Deacon could see the doctor across the room, see his shoulders tighten a moment before they released with a sigh. He waited until she had reached his corner before he turned, and there was  weary resignation on his face. “For one thing,” he began, “you are  _ extremely  _ lucky to be walking right now. I’m surprised you made it back here at all with the extent of your injuries. And another,” Carrington held up one finger to silence her when she started to speak, “I looked it over; that bone has healed. Incorrectly, of course, but healed nonetheless.”

“Can’t it just…” Carly gestured at the odd bend with a grimace. “I dunno, can’t you set it or something?”

Carrington shook his head. “That’s what I had hoped, initially, but the multiple stimpaks you used accelerated the calcium growth more than just one would have. It will take re-breaking the bone entirely. If you want to continue to have decent mobility in it, that will require cutting it open, and  _ that  _ is not my area of expertise.”

“The Doc here isn’t exactly…” Deacon hesitated, glancing back at Dez and then shrugging. “He’s good at patching up the basics. Saved our necks plenty of times. But his speciality…”

“My speciality is need-to-know,” Carrington said firmly. He turned back to the table he was working at, waving a hand over his shoulder. “From what I know, Dr. Sun has ample equipment for surgical procedures. It might cost a fair number of caps, but he could do a far better job than I would ever manage.”

Carly grimaced, but after a moment she turned away, grabbing Deacon’s shoulder when she stumbled again. “Great. So Diamond City.”

“Not too far.” Deacon paused while she got her balance back. “I doubt shooting like that is gonna be easy, but Nick and I can watch your back just fine.”

“Right. Manageable.” She pressed two fingers to the stitches on her face with a wince and then sighed. “So how’s Tom been doing?”

“Come see for yourself.”

It took a few steps for Carly to start walking something closer to normal, and Nick grabbed a piece of radstag jerky off a shelf as they passed and pressed it into her hand. Tom didn’t acknowledge them at first; he’d pulled his goggles down at some point and his eyes were locked on the scrolling green text on the screen. Carly watched over his shoulder for a few moments, gnawing on the meat robotically.

Tom gave a startled jerk, apparently just having noticed he had company, and he blinked owlishly at Carly before giving her a strained grin.

“Hey, Bullseye!” He cracked his knuckles, the popping sounds sharp above the drone of the terminal. “Lookin’ good.”

“Feeling better,” she said. “How’s the chip looking?”

“Oh man.” Tom turned back to his screen, fingers flying across the keyboard again while a somewhat crazed grin spread over his face. “Oh it is a  _ goldmine, _ man, the amount of data on this thing is ridiculous! Can’t even sort most of it out, and I’ve only cracked the first couple layers.”

“What about the teleporter?”

“Workin’ on that now. I get why we haven’t had any luck cracking the failsafes on the new synths, I’m barely having any luck with this thing directly plugged in...ah shit,  _ no  _ you don’t…”

He was lost to them again for a few minutes, muttering under his breath at the chip, the computer, and occasionally nothing at all. They let him have at it, and though Deacon could occasionally pick out a few strings of coherent sentences on the screen, most of it seemed like gibberish. Regular terminals he could handle just fine, hacking into old systems to pull information, but this was a level he hadn’t seen before. It was damned impressive that Tom could navigate it at all.

It took until Carly had finished off her jerky and half a bottle of water that Nick passed her before Tom straightened suddenly with a satisfied noise. His eyes stayed on the screen, but one hand flailed out toward them.

“Holotoape.”

Deacon leaned forward, squinting at the screen. It didn’t make any more sense than it had before. “Did you find it?”

“ _ Holotape. _ ”

“Right, right…” It took a bit of rummaging around on the cluttered desk to find one, and Deacon turned it over in his hands once. “This one empty?”

Tom waved his hand again. “Doesn’t matter, more important.” He glanced up just long enough to snatch the tape and plugged it in, waiting only a few seconds for it to boot up before typing furiously again. “Almost gotcha, you son of a bitch…”

It took another few minutes after that. Dez found her way over at some point, standing a couple feet back with her arms folded, and she was the only other one that Deacon didn’t see jump when Tom gave a sudden and sharp, “ _ Ha! _ ” He popped the holotape out again, holding it aloft as he turned, his grin a little manic. “That is what I’m  _ talkin’  _ about, baby!”

“You got it?” Dez asked, and Deacon was impressed that Tom only wavered a little when he stepped forward to pass her the tape.

“All on there -- or at least what I could pull. The relevant parts anyway. I think.” He pushed his goggles back up onto his head, scratched at the indents it had left on his face, and glanced back at the terminal. “Ought to be enough to get the information for that teleporter. Some pretty complex shit in there, lemme tell ya, but if your man already knows the basics…”

Carly nodded. “He said he could get things started right when we left, and just needed this information to put the final details in. If that’s all they had on there, we should be good.”

Tom’s laugh was bordering on hysterical, and he leaned heavily back onto the edge of his desk. “Sure hope it’s everything -- I’m tellin’ ya, there’s no end to the data on that thing. A while longer and I can look for blueprints, floorplans, their terraforming info…”

“Get some rest first, Tinker,” Deacon told him, and he was glad when Dez didn’t object. “Can’t go uncovering all of the Institute’s secrets if you’re collapsed on the floor.”

That nearly got a protest, but Tom seemed to think better of it and straightened, reaching to grab Carly’s good arm. “Keep a sharp eye out there, Bullseye,” he said. “Remember what I told ya about those nanobots -- watch what you eat.”

“Always do,” she returned with a grin. “We’ll see you soon.”

Tom grabbed a folder as he wandered over to a mattress in one corner. Of course the kid would never  _ actually  _ rest, but at least he might sit down for a while. Carly turned her focus to Dez, and they both stared down at the small tape before Dez passed it over with a sigh.

“I suppose telling you it’s too early to travel would be pointless,” she said, “and I’d be lying if I said we didn’t need that way in sooner rather than later. But I can tell you to be careful.”

Carly was still managing to grin, the squint in her left eye making it look somewhat suspicious. “I’ll be fine. Even that glowing hellhole seems kinda tame after the Courser. Besides,” she added, glancing over at where Nick and Deacon stood, “I’ve got backup. Gotta make a quick run up north anyway, so I’ll be good to go before the real hard crap comes up.”

Dez nodded, pushing her hair out of her face as she looked once around the room. “Well in that case, I won’t keep you. Good luck, agent. Keep your eyes peeled out there.”

That seemed as much of a dismissal as anything, and Carly headed back toward where her bag sat, Nick close behind her. Deacon was just turning when Dez caught his arm and he paused, instinctively leaning closer when she did.

“Try not to let her out of your sight again, “Dez told him quietly, “ and make sure she gets back. You know as well as I do how much we need a win.”

“We’ll be fine,” Deacon said, one eyebrow raising from behind the sunglasses as he shot her a smirk. “After all, we got a Courser killer on our team.”

Admittedly, it was a bit disheartening to see said Courser-killer hold onto the wall for support when they went up the stairs to the back door. She turned down Nick’s offered hand as they jumped down onto the pavement from the crumbling building, and though she didn’t fall, the moment of pause before she stood fully upright and started walking had Deacon wary.

Still, Diamond City wasn’t too far. Deacon knew the routes to take, and though Carly could only use her pistol -- and it was shaky at best without the other hand for support -- they didn’t run into much that warranted it. Two ghouls decided to try their luck and were quickly dispatched, three super mutant camps were given a very wide berth, and Carly got her boot covered in goo when she kicked a radroach.

“You never did tell me,” she said while she paused to scrape some of the roach off onto a patch of dead grass, “how exactly Nick ended up in headquarters.”

Nick and Deacon exchanged a quick look, and Nick gave a short, resigned sigh the moment Deacon started to speak.

“You missed a lot,” he said. “See, right after you left I ran into this pack of super mutants. They took a liking to my handsome face and grabbed me, so Nick here had to come charging into the camp, guns blazing --”

“That is some  _ impressive  _ bullshit,” Nick cut him off as Carly laughed. “You prepare these in advance?”

“Ah c’mon, I’m making you look good.”

Nick shook his head, kicking aside a cardboard box as he passed it. “Wasn’t too exciting, really: we went to take out this camp that was causing issues for moving synths. This idiot,” he jabbed a finger at Deacon, who made sure to look as deeply affronted as he could, “decided to do it while actively bleeding. Had to drag his ass to Ticon before he passed out completely.”

Carly rolled her eyes. “I  _ told  _ you to get that damn leg fixed up in Goodneighbor.”

“Yeah, well,” Deacon waved a dismissive hand, “turned out fine. Sort of.”

“You needed a blood transfusion,” Nick said. “I was even more concerned that High Rise didn’t seem surprised.”

“Ah, you met High Rise?” Carly sidestepped a puddle that had a suspicious green sheen, wincing when the abrupt movement jostled her bad arm. “Was that new kid still there? Fidget or something?”

“Yeah, got to see her a bit; she went out on a run right after we got there.”

It was a hell of a lot easier now, Deacon realized, not having to dodge around any vague mention of the Railroad. He was used to it, of course. It was second nature, but he knew it didn’t come as easily for Carly, especially not when she had trusted Nick so obviously from the start. She was used to his lying, but she’d never been a fan of lying herself. At least not to friends.

It was slow going, and Deacon didn’t miss the irony that this time it was Carly who was setting that pace. Even so, they made it to the city before the sun disappeared. Nick paused long enough at the bottom of the staircase to exchange a few words with the guard on duty. The fact that he immediately recognized the guy was pretty impressive, considering they rarely took off their helmets on duty, but Deacon figured that it would get easier for someone who actually lived in the city.

“Sounds like Sun’s packed up for the day,” Nick told them while they headed up the stairs. “He usually grabs dinner at the Dugout, so you can at least fill him in, get something set up for tomorrow.”

Carly nodded, letting out a long sigh as she ran a hand back through her hair. A few more clumps came loose and she shook them away impatiently. “Great. Love surgery. Especially in the apocalypse. I’m not gonna lose my arm, right?”

“Sun’s good. Known a lot of people go through him with worse, and the ones who saw any kind of complications were generally idiots about it.”

Deacon didn’t entirely hold back a snort. “Because she’s always completely rational about injuries.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Carly protested immediately, “pot meet kettle.”

“Meet...what?”

“I’m going to head to the agency,” Nick interrupted. “See if Ellie’s picked up anything in the last couple days. Tell Sun I’m cashing in on that favor he owes me, should at least get you a discount.”

Carly sighed again, adjusting the rifle across her back. “Discount won’t hurt. I’ll drop in afterwards, let you know.”

They paused at the bottom of the ramp and it took Deacon a moment to realize that he was being looked at expectantly. He glanced between them and then laughed shortly.

“Well don’t go fighting over my attention, guys. I mean I’m flattered, but…”

“Ah, shut up,” Carly scoffed, shoving his shoulder before she headed toward the back of the market. “Just don’t get killed before we leave.”

“You know I make no promises, boss,” he called after her.

Nick snorted as he was starting toward the back alleys himself. He paused like he was considering something, then turned back.

“Office is still open,” he said, “if you’d prefer a plain mattress to spending caps.”

Deacon clutched at his heart dramatically. “Why, detective, are you trying to proposition me?”

Nick, expectedly, rolled his eyes, but Deacon spotted the start of a grin before he turned away again. “Buy me dinner first, at the very least.”

It was strange to realize, once Nick had disappeared down the alley, that it had been a long time since he’d been in the city with nothing to accomplish. There weren’t any dead drops to collect or tourists to meet, and they weren’t leaving until Carly could use her arm again.

He ended up in the Dugout himself, making a note of Carly at one side table with Sun, who was examining her arm over his plate of food. Deacon gave her a short wave before settling at the bar. If nothing else, he could watch people; he was very good at watching, and the residents here certainly loved the moonshine that the Bobrov’s made. He’d never been a fan of it himself, but he did like how willing to talk most people got after a drink or two.

Tonight, unfortunately, there wasn’t much intel to gather. Diamond City was relatively quiet -- no real excitement lately save Piper accusing the mayor of being a synth.

It was very possible she was right, unfortunately. There was a reason the Railroad kept an especially low profile in Diamond City; they had one permanent agent who had been around long enough that no one questioned him, but if there was any place the Institute would want to infiltrate, it’d be the biggest city in the area. Hell, it had already happened at least once from what he’d heard.

He ended up renting a room there, partially because he hadn’t had an actual bed in weeks, and partially to stay on Yefim’s good side. Deacon wasn’t surprised when he woke up a few times, the sound of a slamming door or settling metal startling him enough to have one hand on his gun before conscious thought caught up.

He also wasn’t surprised when Piper cornered him the next morning practically the second he stepped into the market. There were ink spots on her face and her hair was hastily stuffed up under her cap.

“You were with Carly.” It wasn’t a question, and Deacon just lifted a curious eyebrow in reply. Piper gave an impatient huff. “What happened out there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean  _ what happened out there, _ genius. Last time Nick came back all he’d say is that she was investigating something. Why’d she check in with Sun this morning?”

She was impressively determined, especially considering this was barely the second time they had really come in contact with each other -- and Deacon didn’t think the first counted for much, since he hadn’t even spoken. Then again, she was a reporter. It probably came with the job.

“It was like this,” he found himself explaining. “Three deathclaws at once. Got us pinned down in this little shack, but you know those claws, they were just tearing the place to splinters. Seemed like a pretty dumb way to get killed, but then Carly pulls out this molotov from who-knows-where and chucks it at the closest one…”

He could see the moment Piper started to get suspicious, the sudden shift from wide-eyed concern to doubt, and Deacon let himself trail off with a shrug.

“It’s really better when she tells it,” he said. “Doubt Sun will knock her out or anything, you can go ask yourself.”

She eyed him suspiciously. Deacon could practically see the gears turning and he knew he was just a new puzzle for her to try to piece together. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” Piper finally asked.

He gave her a noncommittal shrug. “Old caravan guard, just thought it was about time I started doing something for more than the caps.”

He wasn’t sure she bought it, but he wasn’t sure Piper ever really bought anything. She stared him down a few seconds longer before turning on her heel and striding back down the alley toward the market. It wasn’t too busy yet; most people preferred to do their shopping in the middle of the day once it started warming up. The vendors usually kept consistent hours, though, and Deacon decided to get his trading done before they needed to be ready to leave.

Carly would want to get out the gate as soon as she could stand up. Between Sun and Nick, that might be delayed by an hour or two, but that was being optimistic.

He traded away a scrounged laser pistol for most of Stockholm’s supply of RadAway, waving off the man’s insistent offer of Psycho alongside it.  The deal didn’t leave many caps for bullets, but Deacon could usually find ammo for his pistol even if he ran short on the rifle, and it would be hard to fight much of anything if they were dying of radiation sickness.

It did, however, leave him caps for an early lunch.

Without much else to do, he planted himself on one of the stools at the noodle stand with a decent view of Sun’s door. Takahashi ambled over, always impressively conscious of the stacked bowls and bottles on either side of the small space behind the counter.

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“Always a yes from me, pal.”

Deacon wondered vaguely, as the bowl of noodles was placed in front of him and he counted out the caps, who exactly got any profits from the stand. It wasn’t like Takahashi was about to splurge on a new chef’s hat, and he’d never seen anyone collecting the caps earned each day. Whatever the case, the noodles were warm and the robot didn’t have any expectations for small talk.

The robot that sat down next to him a few minutes later, however, occasionally did.

“How’s the noodle game, Tak?” Nick asked.

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“That so? Well, as long as you’re staying out of trouble.”

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“Good. Won’t stand for anyone messing with the only other robot in this town I can stand.”

Deacon found himself chuckling. “Think he even understands you?”

Nick shrugged, pulling out and lighting a cigarette. “Maybe not, but if he does, it’d get kinda dull with everyone else saying nothing but yes or no.”

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“No thanks, buddy, I’m good.” The chef turned and shuffled away again. Nick spun the cigarette between his fingers, glancing up toward the mayor’s office in the distance. “Probably just got some glitch in his coding, stuck on a loop. McDonough thinks it’s part of the city’s charm now, though, like people are traveling all this way to have a very one-sided conversation over their food.”

Deacon hid his quick snort in his bowl. It was odd to realize that the last time he’d been in this city, he had been half convinced Nick was an Institute plant at the worst and a liability at best. When the hell had he genuinely started to like the guy?

_ About the time he saved your neck in Cambridge even when you were an ass about it, _ an annoying part of him pointed out. He ignored it.

“So,” Nick began, and Deacon glanced up to meet his eyes over a fork of noodles, “you’re not a synth.”

“That you know of.”

“Deacon’s a code name.”

“Or is it?”

Nick rolled his eyes, tapping his cigarette on a nearby ashtray. “Means you’ve got a real name. Ever gonna let that one slip?”

Shit, they were back to that. Deacon made a point of finishing off his lunch and pushing his bowl toward the center of the counter before turning, the start of a smirk twitching in one corner of his mouth. “Why does it matter?”

“I generally like to know the names of my friends, is all.”

The smirk almost faltered.  _ Don’t hear that word much, do you? _ “You’re the detective,” Deacon pointed out. “Think I’d make it easy for you?”

“It’s a name,” Nick said.

“Those can have a lot of power in my line of work.”

“There are also a lot of them.” He didn’t even seem to realize that he’d smoked down to the filter at first. It joined the others in the ashtray a moment later. “Not exactly something I can just investigate.”

Deacon considered that. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, flashing a grin, “we’re gonna be back on the road again soon. Every time we get a break, I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Guesses?” Nick tilted his head a little curiously. “Don’t see how that would do much good.”

“I mean, like I said, I can’t make it too easy for you. But it is kind of a yes or no deal, so you can at least tell if I’m telling the truth.”

Nick thought it over a moment before he scoffed, shrugging one shoulder. “Well I guess you’re not technically wrong.” He nodded toward Sun’s door, apparently content to drop the topic. “Any word?”

Deacon shook his head. “Nothing yet. She was in before I got out here, though. Pretty sure Piper fought her way in too.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Sun knows his stuff, so I doubt they’ll be too long.”

“And then what, any idea?” Nick glanced over curiously and Deacon gestured toward the gate. “She said we were going north first. Any idea what’s north?”

“I know what’s north,” Nick said, “but I’m not sure what she wants up there. Cambridge doesn’t have much except that Brotherhood outpost. There are a couple of smaller settlements across the river, but other than that…”

Deacon grunted. “Be a fun surprise, then. As long as she’s not dragging us into a nest of super mutants.”

“You mean before or after she drags us into the Glowing Sea?”

That got a short laugh. “Right, there’s that.”

“Not like the radiation can do a hell of a lot to me,” Nick said. “Same reason she brought John along the last time, I guess. You two are another story, though.”

“Yeah.” Deacon poked at his own chest with a good-natured grimace. “Kinda got a couple of organs in here I’d like to stay solid. I picked up some RadAway, but the rest…” He shrugged. “Guess we’ll figure it out before we hit the edge. Dez would kill me if I let her go in without me.”

Nick nodded thoughtfully. “Dez still doesn’t trust me.”

Deacon shrugged. “Nah, not really. Can you blame her, though? It took me long enough, and I’m a very trusting person by nature.”

“Yeah, that’s bullshit.”

Deacon snorted. “C’mon, it only took you what, a month or so?”

“A month and multiple instances of saving your ass.” Nick shot him a glance that looked somewhat critical. “Not like you fully trust me anyway.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m a detective. I know these things.” He adjusted his hat as he stood, pulling the brim further down over his eyes. “Give me a shout if Carly gets done.”

Deacon watched him head back down the alley behind Fallon’s and let himself wonder why  Nick had come out in the first place. It didn’t seem worth considering for too long, and he fished out a handful of caps, sliding them across the counter before grabbing one of the Nuka Colas that sat in the shade.

May as well settle in for the wait.

\---------------

Carly was still somewhat unsteady when she finally emerged, but Sun was confident it was just the remnants of the Med-X and that they’d wear off fully within a few hours.

“The incision should be fully closed by tomorrow,” he told Nick, glancing back to where Carly was leaning against the side of his shop, left arm in a sling and Piper chattering beside her. “If it breaks open again another stimpak should finish things up, but I’d rather let things heal as naturally as they can.”

“No arguments from me,” Nick said. “She’s never been a huge fan of the things anyway. No issues, then?”

Sun shook his head. “Couldn’t get a straight answer about what really happened, but I’ve seen that kind of thing plenty of times. Get a little too liberal with the stims and things heal where they’re not supposed to. Pretty routine procedure by this point.”

“I‘m  _ fine _ , Nick,” Carly insisted. At least her words weren’t slurred. “Don’t even need this thing,” she gestured at the sling vaguely, “I could shoot just fine now.”

“I would not recommend --”

“We’ll keep an eye on her, Doc,” Deacon interrupted him. “Heading north anyway; it’ll be a quiet trip.”

Sun considered him with narrowed eyes before he sighed. “I’d hope so. At the very least,” he added, turning to Carly, “stick to the pistol until it’s healed fully. I don’t want that rifle of yours ruining my work.”

“Aw c’mon,” she protested, “I haven’t even gotten to use it yet.”

“We appreciate the help,” Nick said, shooting Carly a pointed look. “Your caps --”

“Consider your favor repaid,” Sun said. “We’re good. Just as long as none of you need surgery again in the near future.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t need surgery in the first place,” Piper muttered. “Leave without me for like, three days, and you come back with your arm in pieces.”

Carly just rolled her eyes, pushing herself upright and adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “Thanks again, Doc. I’ll check in the next time we pass through town.”

“See that you do.” Sun said as he turned to his shop. “And watch those stimpaks next time.”

He went back inside, undoubtedly to clean up, and Carly squinted up at the sky.

“We can still probably make it out of Cambridge before dark,” she noted, “or at least most of the way. Area’s usually pretty clear anyway.”

“Haven’t even told us where we’re going yet, boss,” Deacon pointed out, and she gave a conceding nod as she started toward the ramp out of town.

“Dropping by Sanctuary. Little settlement just north of Concord.” Carly paused, biting her bottom lip for a moment before glancing back at Piper. “You’re welcome to tag along if you want. We’ll be coming back through here pretty soon anyway.”

Piper grinned, but shook her head. “As tempting as it is, I’ll have to pass on this one. Got a new issue almost ready for print and someone has to look after Nat.” She hesitated, and Deacon could see her eyes flick back toward him and Nick before they got a little extra resolve. She had to bend just a little to press a quick kiss to Carly’s cheek. Piper flashed another grin, then strode to her office with a call of, “Stay safe out there, Blue,” tossed over one shoulder.

Deacon could see the blush, even if the color wasn’t as prominent with Carly’s darker skin. She blinked twice, then composed herself enough to shoot the other two a warning look before striding quickly up the ramp and leaving them no choice but to follow.

“So this is a new development, I take it?” Deacon asked, immediately dodging the halfhearted punch toward his shoulder and feeling satisfied to hear Nick chuckle.

Carly made a noise that sounded like both a groan and a sigh. “Shut it, both of you.”

“You realize if you ever piss her off she will completely ruin you in her paper.”

“I said  _ shut it.” _

Their walk was, as expected, largely uneventful. A few groups of Raiders had to be avoided, but Deacon was good at finding the quietest paths around camps. They ended up skirting the western edge of Cambridge, following the train tracks that ran past Boston. Though the tracks weren’t frequented as much as the main roads, they saw enough foot traffic to keep most groups from settling in.

There wasn’t much challenge, then, apart from a small pack of dogs passing through. Deacon had the teeth of one graze along one arm, but a quick shot kept the jaws from closing on it completely. His leg barely twinged at all through the whole thing, which was a nice change from the past week.

Carly stayed back in that bout, trying to aim with just one hand, but once they finished off the last dog she shrugged the sling off impatiently.

“It’s healed plenty,” the woman insisted. “Gonna get injured even more if I can’t shoot properly.”

They stopped by a small waystation on the tracks for a few minutes. Carly apparently knew the farmers there, and judging by how welcoming they were, she had probably helped them out at least once.

Once they moved on again, it was with a small bag of corn tossed over Nick’s shoulder.

“I’ve helped the Minutemen out a few times,” Carly said when Deacon mentioned it. “Cleared out a few places that were causing trouble, y’know, helped people get on their feet a little better.”

“Minutemen?” Deacon glanced back at the small settlement now barely visible on the horizon. “Heard rumors they were coming back, but I’d assumed it was just rumors.”

Nick gave a short hum to his right. “There’s a couple people starting to set up in a little place near Diamond City. Raiders used to hole up there, but they’re saying the Minutemen cleared it out. Seem to be getting pretty effective again.”

“Never was so sure about them,” Deacon said. “Not a bad idea, but giving that many people that much power, assumed or not...doesn’t tend to end well. Part of why they collapsed last time.”

Carly just shrugged. “The guy in charge now -- or, well,” she amended, “he’s kinda tried to put me in charge, but with everything else going on…” A quick pause, and she shook her head. “Preston’s a good man, though. First one I met, barely a day out of the Vault. If anyone can build them back up right, it’s Preston. He’s at Sanctuary now, you can talk to him yourself if you want.”

He wasn’t entirely convinced, but Deacon let it drop. They managed to get to the very southern edge of Lexington before the sun set and found a house that was only half-collapsed to stay the night in.

Considering the ghoul population, they took a little extra time to prop an old table over the hole where the front door once was and double checked the boards on all of the windows. Most of the area had been ransacked thoroughly already, but Carly still started picking through the dressers upstairs while Deacon pulled out a wrapped piece of dried radstag meat to serve as a semblance of dinner.

He noticed Nick lean against the wall a few feet away, but didn’t bother looking over until the detective cleared his throat.

“Marcus,” he said, and Deacon frowned for a second or two before he realized what he meant.

The grin wasn’t even a thought-out one this time. Nick was watching him carefully and Deacon folded his arms with a quick laugh.

“Strike one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while to wrap this one up, kinda as expected. The good news is, I'm officially a giant nerd with a bachelor's degree!  
> I've also started working on other side stories to this fic including the Far Harbor plot. I can't have a ship with Nick and not deal with the fallout (heh) of everything that happens in Maine. So those will be happening at some point!  
> As usual, you can find me over at [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com) where I yell about a lot of things.


	13. the moment of truth and the moment to lie

Sanctuary was a mixture of rubble and half-built structures making use of the foundations that had survived over the centuries. Deacon could see a small plot of tilled earth behind one house that was still mostly intact, likely ready for planting once the weather got warmer. Considering how run-down the place had been the last time Deacon had been there, it was impressive what the little group had managed in a few months.

Carly introduced them to Garvey who had a firm handshake and an easy smile, and he accepted the bag of corn gratefully before offering a full tour of the place. Not that there was a lot to show, but Garvey was obviously proud that there was anything at all. He led them past a hastily-erected guard tower, and Carly waved at the man posted there, pausing at the base of the steps to squint up at him.

“How’s my suit, Sturges?” she asked.

“Well I’m no engineer,” Sturges said with a shrug, leaning one hip against the wooden railing, “but I’ve done what I can. Finally found some screws the right size, got the hydraulics tuned up, hammered out most of the dents…”

Carly snorted, glancing back at Garvey once before grinning up at Sturges again. “Not an engineer my ass. You rebuilt a turret; I’m pretty sure that’s the exact sort of thing an engineer does.”

He gave a dismissive wave. “Either way, I’d make sure to give it a test drive before you put it through another deathclaw, huh?”

“Can do. I appreciate the help; I’ll try to find some scrap before we come back next, pay you back.”

“A deathclaw?” Deacon noted as they turned away again. “That  _ definitely  _ sounds like a story I need to hear.”

“Later,” Carly said. “It’s a story for a campfire, anyway.”

The settlement wasn’t exactly bustling, but there were a few people scattered around the buildings. Just at a glance, Sturges and Garvey looked to be the only ones who really knew their way around a weapon; Deacon spotted one man patching up a hole in a house’s wall, a woman dragging a relatively intact sheet of metal over to him, and the top of a white head of hair was just visible through a broken window.

Another pair came around the corner of what looked like the main building from where Deacon had seen the garden plot. Their hands were both covered in dirt and they eyed Nick curiously before recognizing Carly.

“We’re going to start back,” the man told Garvey, wiping his hands on jeans that were already more brown than blue. “Lucy’s watching the place, but Connie’s got a few things to finish up at home before it gets dark.”

“The soil’s looking good,” the woman -- Connie, most likely -- said. “Once the weather starts warming up we’ll bring some seedlings and fertilizer, get it tilled again before planting.”

Garvey’s sigh sounded more relieved than he probably intended, and he nodded. “Sturges can still walk you two back,” he said. “After everything you’ve done…”

“We’ll be fine,” Connie said, “it’s no trouble. Just nice having decent neighbors for a change.”

They set off south with a wave and a quick, “Nice to see you, General,” at Carly. Garvey turned, his rifle propped up on one shoulder -- though it wasn’t really a rifle, with a second look, not with the hand-crank on one side; more like a musket of sorts. Good to see the Minutemen hadn’t given up their aesthetic, at the very least.

“Well,” Garvey said, giving a quick sweeping gesture at the buildings, “that’s about the whole tour. Fixed up a few beds, managed to plug most of the leaks in one roof so far, so it’s better than a lot of places I’ve stayed in.”

“How are you set for food?” Carly asked, and Garvey’s hesitation was short, but present nonetheless.

“Managing. There’s a herd of radstags that Sturges has been keeping an eye on across the river; if he can bag one of them we’ll be set for meat for a long time, and the Abernathys have been bringing spare food from their place.” He shrugged. “It’s a cold winter, but once things warm up and we get our own crops planted, we’ll be fine.”

Carly nodded, looking around the street. The set of her shoulders looked a little too rigid to be natural, and Deacon wondered just how many times she had been back here since making it to Diamond City.

“We won’t be here too long,” she said, “but if there’s anything I can help with around the place in the meantime, say the word.”

Garvey’s smile was still genuine, which was impressive given the circumstances. “I’m sure I’ll find something.” He looked around when the man at the wall called his name and gave a quick wave. “Make yourself at home,” he said, glancing between all three of them. “We haven’t...your house is still the same. Figured it best you look through things, decide if you want to…” The words didn’t seem to be working the way he intended and he shook his head, adding, “I’ll call you when we get dinner started,” before turning away.

Nick didn’t bother hiding his look of surprise. Deacon considered it, but hell, Carly already knew he had been keeping track of her before she got to headquarters. It made sense that he would know where she started from.

And either way, it didn’t look like she was paying attention to his reactions at the moment.

“This was where you lived?” Nick asked. “Before the bombs?”

Carly let out a slow breath and nodded. “Yeah, this was it. Vault is right up the hill.” She turned to the house across from the one Garvey had gone to, dropping her bag on the curb. The tension was even more noticeable now, but she kept her head up when she pushed the door open and stared into the dusty living room. “Slept in the other places when I’ve come by, I couldn’t…”

She trailed off, took a few slow breaths, and stepped further into the house. Nick followed close behind and Deacon hesitated for just a few seconds before doing the same. Carly looked aimless, fingers trailing along the back of the couch and her eyes flicking from side to side like she didn’t want to look at any one thing for too long.

“Kinda remember hearing about this place,” Nick said after a few moments of silence. “Not exactly cheap.”

Carly shook her head, scoffing quietly. “No, it wasn’t. Most of the people here, they...government owed them, y’know? Pulled some favors.” She didn’t actually turn to see the curious looks, but she did sigh. “Me and...us too. When we knew we were having Shaun, it...changed some things.”

She had stopped at the beginning of the short hallway. Deacon could see the doorway at the end and the small fragment of dingy carpet that had once been bright blue through the opening that told him enough of what was in there. Carly was staring it down like she was in the midst of some internal debate. Deacon risked breaking it, reaching to touching her elbow and not missing the startled jerk that resulted.

“We can go,” he offered, and she did look like she considered it before shaking her head sharply.

“No, I’m...I’m okay. Can’t just avoid this place forever.”

Technically she could. That was probably how Deacon would handle things in her situation: start the long process of trying to forget.

Carly pushed on anyway. Her jaw was set and shoulders tense, but her hand wasn’t shaking when she leaned up against the doorframe and stared into the small room. The blue crib was in surprisingly good shape for having sat in one place for two centuries. Everything was covered in a film of dust, but the colors still shone through. The remnants of a mobile above the crib swayed in the breeze that came in through the empty window.

Most places like this had been stripped a long time ago. Deacon figured Codsworth had protected the house all those years, keeping scavvers away until the proper owner finally crawled up out of the mountain. The houses around it had seen a lot of use, mostly from Garvey’s group, but they had left Carly’s old place alone.

It was practically untouched by everything but the elements, and even those had been surprisingly kind. That gave the whole place a haunted feeling, like it was still clinging to the world before the bombs had fallen.

Carly turned abruptly, going back to the living room with her breathing purposefully slow. She swayed once but caught herself on a shelf before Nick or Deacon could reach out fully. It might have still been the remnants of the fight with the Courser or it might have been grief. A mixture of the two seemed most likely, but Deacon only knew how to help with the former.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t try anyway.

“Shaun’s out there,” he found himself saying, keeping his voice low “and we’re gonna find him. I promise.”

She didn’t react for a few seconds. Nick shot him a look he couldn’t read and then Carly let out a quiet sigh. Her shoulders squared again and Deacon saw her hands clenching tightly.

“They’re probably getting dinner ready,” she said. “I’m gonna see if Preston needs any help.”

That put a firm end to the matter for the moment. Carly strode back out to the road, shaking her arms at her sides once and then nearly got taken to the ground when Dogmeat suddenly realized she was back. Her laugh was surprised but didn’t seem forced and she crouched to scratch the dog behind his ears.

It could probably be worse. At least she was making some effort to face it down.

Way more than Deacon ever did, anyway.

* * *

Dinner was a collection of canned beans and some Instamash cooked over a fire. The lack of meat was telling, but Sturges was convinced that he could get one of the radstags within the week. He and Carly were the ones who talked the most; Carly gave an abridged version of she had been doing since leaving, though omitting the details about who she had been doing it for.

“A Courser?” Preston asked after she had shown the little group where the incision on her arm was almost entirely healed. “One of those Institute bastards in the black coats?”

Carly nodded, pulling her sleeve back down. “You seen one?”

“Nah, just heard of them. Heard survivors are rare. You killed one of those?”

“Yeah, it -- hang on.” She twisted around and dragged her bag closer, tugging a mass of black out and holding it up. It looked like leather, scuffed in places but without any really serious damage Deacon could see, and holy shit did that uniform bring back memories.

Preston gave a low whistle. “And you  _ took  _ it’s coat, too? Damn, General, that’s --”

“Completely insane?” Deacon offered, waving his spoon at Carly. “Because yeah, I’d definitely agree with that.”

She shot him weary look and turned the uniform over in her hands. “Kinda...spur of the moment, and after he ripped so many holes in mine,” she plucked at one of those holes in her shirt’s shoulder, pulling off a few singed threads, “it seemed like poetic justice or something.”

“Still insane.”

“You gonna use it?” Sturges asked.

Carly looked over at him curiously. “Use it?”

“Yeah, I mean…” He gestured at it with the fork in his hand. “You killed that thing, said it went through however many Gunners beforehand, but the material barely looks touched.”

She considered it and then chuckled. “I mean if I wanted to trip over it every three seconds -- Courser had to be six feet at the very least.”

“I can hem it for you.” No one looked more surprised than Jun himself when he spoke up, and he hunched further over his can of beans before pushing on. “Used to do some modifications at the...at the store. I could bring up the bottom, the sleeves…”

The fire crackled loudly over the silence. Carly’s smile was soft when she nodded.

“I’d appreciate that, Jun, really.”

There were a few quiet minutes of nothing but utensils on cans and the fire in the pit. It was a weirdly peaceful settlement as a whole; Deacon knew this area was less frequently traveled by Raiders or the like, but it still seemed strange to be able to sit around at dinner without worrying about concealing the fire or having one hand on a gun the whole time.

“So c’mon, boss,” Deacon said once he had scraped his own can clean, “I hear you’ve got a deathclaw story for us.”

“Everyone’s got a deathclaw story,” Carly told him. “Some are more legitimate than others.”

“And yours is definitely legitimate.” Preston grinned when she rolled her eyes. “Saw it myself. Fresh out of the Vault, still saved all of our asses.”

“Besides,” Nick added, leaning forward in his chair, “your stories actually tend to be the truth. Makes ‘em that much more interesting.”

She was pinned, and she knew it. Carly glanced between all of them before giving a resigned sigh and looking up at the darkening horizon. “Not really that good at stories,” she said, “but there  _ was  _ a deathclaw and a whole hell of a lot of screaming.”

The story was actually a pretty good one, all things considered. Deacon had heard better, but those were all from his type, people who crafted words as an artform. Carly tried for accuracy over embellishment, occasionally got into an argument with Preston about things like who actually fired the shot that took the deathclaw down (each was convinced it was the other), and smacked at Deacon’s shoulder when he laughed at what were apparently the wrong parts.

It kept everyone entertained until the stars were bright. Jun and Marcy were the first to excuse themselves; Jun had Carly stand and took quick rough measurements, folding the Courser uniform over his arm before they went back to the house. The older woman, Mama Murphy, got Sturges’s arm to help her up. It was hard to guess her age -- her hair was all white, but she seemed to have very little trouble getting around when she walked away. It was always impressive seeing anyone get past middle age in the Commonwealth.

“What’s the patrol situation?” Carly asked as Sturges started putting the fire out. “I can take a watch if you --”

“No you can’t,” Nick cut in. “If you’re so dead set on leaving tomorrow, you are sleeping tonight.”

She let out a huff of breath, eyes rolling. “I’ve slept two nights in a row, that’s better than usual.”

“And one of those was under sedation,” Deacon pointed out. “I’m with him, boss; you’ve been going non-stop for like, a week straight.”

“We’ve got it covered anyway,” Sturges said. “Got my guard post at the main entrance, turret on the roof, and Dogmeat’ll start raising hell if anyone even breaks a twig on the other side of the river. Nothing ever really comes around except the occasional radstag anyway.”

Carly still looked skeptical. Garvey stood, clapping her on the shoulder as he passed on his way back to the main road.

“Everything’s good here, General,” he told her. “Let me know when you’re leaving, we’ll set you up with a few supplies.”

The rest of the fire extinguished with a hiss when Sturges raked dirt over the wood. Deacon hadn’t realized how dark it had gotten around them until the flame was gone and they were left with just the stars and the glow of Carly’s Pip Boy when she flipped it on.

“We’ve got a couple spare beds,” Sturges told them. “Not exactly top of the line, but they work. I’m not sure if you…” He hesitated and gestured at Nick. “Dunno if you need one or not.”

Nick shook his head. “Nah, sleep’s not really an issue. I can keep watch, actually. Maybe put this one’s,” he nodded quickly at Carly, “mind at ease.”

“Yeah,” she snorted quietly, “like that ever happens.”

Sturges just shrugged before he walked off, whistling some tune with his gun propped up on his shoulder, and the remaining three lingered around what was left of the coals.

“Leaving tomorrow, then,” Deacon said. “We got a specific plan?”

Carly pushed herself to her feet with a sigh, scratching at her head and grimacing when a few chunks of hair came out. “Gotta get that tape to Virgil,” she said. “Not like I ever want to go back to that hellhole of a place, but I figure it’s easier this time, knowing what’s coming.”

“You got power armor,” Nick noted. “That’s gotta keep a lot of the rads at bay.”

“Yeah, so they tell me. And you’ll be fine, obviously, but…” She hesitated, glancing at Deacon, and he pulled on as firm of a look as he could.

“Don’t you even start with that,” he said immediately. “I’m going with you.”

Carly looked ready to put up something of a fight, even if her tone was resigned. “The rads by themselves --”

“Are a pain in the ass, I know. But we’ve got RadAway, you know where to go now so it’ll be faster than last time, and you won’t need as much treatment anyway.” Deacon folded his arms stubbornly. “I’m going with you. If nothing else, Dez would skin me if I didn’t. Besides, judging by the crap you say you ran into just on the way, you could definitely use an extra gun.” She still seemed wary, and Deacon sighed, chancing a look at Nick who only offered a small shrug. “It’ll be hell, but maybe a little less so with more of us, right?”

Carly sighed again, rubbing the back of her neck as she swept a look around the fallen buildings. “Fine,” she muttered. “I mean it’s not that I don’t appreciate the help, you know that. I just don’t want to have more risks than necessary.”

Deacon put on a sardonic grin. “No more risk than we always have. I can take care of myself pretty damn well, and I gotta make sure you two stay in line.”

“Yeah,” Nick scoffed, “because we’re the ones who need watching.”

Deacon made sure to look deeply offended. “I’ll have you know I am the epitome of responsible.”

“Bullshit.”

“Buzzkill.”

“Okay,” Carly cut in, hands raising a moment. “I’m going to bed. We don’t have to leave right at dawn, but not too long after that.” She stretched out her arms, rubbed the nearly-healed incision on the left one, and then turned, picking up her stuff and starting for the most intact house. “Get some rest. Got a long walk ahead of us.”

Deacon grabbed his bag and his gun, pausing before he shot Nick a grin. It was satisfying when it was returned.

“Got ourselves into some crazy shit, huh?” Deacon said, and Nick laughed.

“Story of my life, pal.”

The beds were technically mattresses that they had probably scrounged from some old buildings nearby. Given the state of the area, it was impressive that they had beds at all, and the fact that they had multiple houses meant there was actually some semblance of privacy.

Privacy was a strange concept these days. Deacon figured it had been at least six months or so since he’d slept in a room by himself, and then it was only because he had been doing research alone. He made himself try to sleep for an hour or so, just out of principle, but it was just as hard to manage now as it had been the last time he had been in Sanctuary, back when he had the whole place to himself apart from the Mr. Handy who never knew he was there.

The idea of actually going to the Glowing Sea kept his mind busier than it needed to be at night. He’d met a few people who had been at the edge, and those stories had been bad enough. Carly was the only one he knew who had been deep into the heart of the place and come back.

Radiation was enough of a problem. That would have been tricky enough to manage if that were the only issue; the things that managed to live in the Sea were in the worst place in the ‘Wealth for a reason.

It was going to be a hell of a trip. But really, like he’d told Dez, they did have a Courser-killer on their side.

Deacon gave up on sleeping after a while. He slid his sunglasses back on and wandered out onto the street, scratching Dogmeat behind the ears in passing. Garvey was standing by the posts at the front entrance, his laser musket leaning up against the guard post. He barely shifted when Deacon came to stand next to him, eyes firmly on the road beyond the bridge.

“So,” Garvey began conversationally, “how’d you end up tagging along with the General?”

“Been out of the Vault a few months tops,” Deacon said. “How’d she get to be General already?” Garvey shot him a look and Deacon chuckled, shrugging. “Nothing as exciting as your deathclaw adventure. I worked out of Bunker Hill, caravan guard or gun for hire, whatever pays. Her job sounded the most interesting.”

“Most freelance mercs don’t last long around here. Gunners aren’t a fan of people working in their territory.”

Deacon grunted. “I wouldn’t have survived this long if I couldn’t outsmart idiots like that.”

“Fair enough.” Garvey paused, his weight shifting to his other foot, and he tapped at the end of his musket. “You ever consider helping a cause for more than just the caps?”

He didn’t snort, --  _ you don’t know the half of it  _ \-- but Deacon did raise an incredulous eyebrow. “Caps keep me fed. Most vendors don’t take righteousness as currency.”

Garvey didn’t look offended; he shrugged, the majority of his focus returning to the road. “Well if you ever change your mind, you’ve got a pretty direct contact with us. We’re coming back.” His voice was firmer with that, though he still didn’t look over. “And we’re coming back right this time.”

Deacon hummed shortly. They stood in silence for a minute or so before he decided that the conversation wasn’t starting up again and turned back to the little town. Maybe he could sleep now, get his thoughts to quiet down now that his muscles were stretched out.

It didn’t seem likely.

He ended up passing the house his mattress was in, wandering further down the street toward the large tree that still stood. There were still ruined buildings here, though it looked like Garvey’s group had finished knocking down the walls themselves and started picking through the remains for useful parts.

All things considered, Sanctuary was a decent settlement. The river gave them a good border, and there were plenty of supplies left over as long as someone knew what to do with them, which Sturges seemed proficient with. He figured if they could make it through the rest of the winter, they might have a good chance of sticking things out.

“Y’know, for all the times you nag Carly to sleep, you seem to get very little of it yourself.”

Deacon didn’t bother turning at first, just letting his eyes roll as Nick came up the street behind him.

“Well I mean all the cybernetic enhancements certainly help,” he said. “Bet I can run for a week off just a couple hours.”

Nick snorted, his arms folded as he stopped by the tree. “Yeah, I don’t think we should go about testing that.” He paused before adding, “Not gonna get much of a chance once we get south.”

Deacon shrugged. “I can sleep anywhere. Even in a highly radioactive radscorpion nest. As long as I’m glowing enough, they’ll accept me as one of their own.”

“Which you might be,” Nick pointed out. “Don’t exactly have an extra suit of power armor to lend you.”

“Don’t you try convincing me to stay, I’m far more stubborn than I let on.”

“I’m not, it just…” Nick hesitated and then looked over at him with a small frown. “Why are you so determined to go in the first place? Pretty sure I’ve got you convinced I’m not gonna suddenly turn on everyone.”

Well, to an extent, anyway. Deacon kept his voice light when he chuckled. “Yeah, but it’s the Glowing Sea -- when am I ever going to get another chance to say I’ve been there and not died?”

“It’s not exactly something on my bucket list, I admit.”

“Isn’t it on everyone’s?”

“The point is,” Nick pressed, “I know she appreciates the help. Place like that, it’s always good to have another gun around. It just doesn’t seem like something most people would be so determined to do.”

Deacon scoffed. “When have I ever been most people?” Nick kept looking at him, though, that same determined look, and after a moment Deacon shrugged. “She gets into enough trouble with us around as it is. Goes after a Courser alone, so...seems in everyone’s best interest if Bullseye has more people tagging along.”

Nick considered that and then grunted. “I guess that’s a point.”

“Hard enough keeping her alive to begin with,” Deacon muttered. “Plus I wasn’t lying; Dez will personally kill me if I let her out of my sight again.”

“Seems a lot of pressure to keep one person alive.” Nick looked back at the river, the glow of his eyes brighter than usual in the shadow of his hat. “Not that it’s a bad thing, but I wouldn’t expect such a focused priority, especially with a group as big as yours.”

“Yeah, well, she’s kinda the last chance we’ve got.”

Shit, that wasn’t supposed to have come out so bluntly. He was losing his touch.

Couldn’t take it back easily, though. Nick was already frowning at him again, eyes narrowed, expecting an explanation. It would take quite a bit of dancing around the subject to get it anywhere else, Nick was hard to distract when it came to things like that.

And hell, if he was going to keep working with them, he needed to understand.

Deacon rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand and sighed. “Alright,” he said, turning to stride down the road, “follow me.”

“Where --”

“Not far. Just trust me.”

Probably a tall order, all things considered. Nick followed anyway.

He did look confused when they passed the houses and turned onto the dirt path to the footbridge. Even in the dark, Deacon knew the route well. He’d certainly been down it often enough.

The Vault wasn’t much more than a dark shape on the hill. Nick paused for a few beats to stare at it before catching up to where Deacon was passing the last of the trailers.

“What’s this about?” Nick asked, and Deacon paused at the base of the hill, looking pointedly at the nearest tree.

“You were the one that said there are some things you don’t lie about.” He shrugged. “I guess this is one of them.”

It still took some hurried mental acrobatics to actually start talking about it. He let himself focus on the terrain at first, and then he was talking before he fully meant to.

“The truth is…” Deacon hesitated, realizing a little late that those words were ironic coming from him. “You’ve seen HQ and Ticon. These days those are the very best we’ve got.”

Nick didn’t say anything, and Deacon wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful for that. It made it easier to get the whole thing out at once, but...well, that was the downside, too. After a short pause and a side-step around a fallen log, Deacon just pressed on.

“A couple months back, we had has this place we called the Switchboard. Old World bunker, probably military or something, under that Slocum Joe’s in Lexington. It was ideal, honestly -- well hidden, central location, and a ton of tech that we were working on putting to use. One hell of a find, and we were damn lucky to have the place. Business was booming; moving synths left and right, extending our reach, getting new agents and new safehouses…”

He had to pull in a slow breath, and Deacon could swear there was a hint of burning ozone in the air.

“We still don’t know how it happened,” he said. “One minute things were as good as they get for us. The next, there were Coursers tearing the place to pieces.”

They reached the top of the hill. It was exactly how he’d left it however many months ago -- candle melted onto the tabletop, a can of water by the chair, and the white ally marker barely peeling. The memory of sitting for so many hours in that chair almost made his back sore all over again. Deacon latched onto that; it was definitely preferable to the other memories trying to all rush back at once.

He wasn’t sure Nick had put together the reason for the vantage point just yet. Yellow eyes hadn’t left Deacon since he’d started talking, and there was something like concern there.

“I won’t bore you with the details,” Deacon said. “Point is, they hit us hard. Only reason any of our leadership survived is because we had an escape tunnel that they didn’t know about. And it wasn’t just the Switchboard -- almost every single safehouse got hit within the hour. We’re still working out the full extent of the damage.”

“You had a mole?”

Deacon gave a short humorless laugh. “No fuckin’ idea. No one’s figured it out, it just...happened.”

Nick let out a breath, looking away back toward Sanctuary. “Shit,” he whispered. “So the church is…”

“An old waypoint turned interim headquarters.” Deacon shrugged and hoped it looked nonchalant. “Until we find something more secure.”

“And that’s why you freaked out about her going after that Courser alone.”

That got a scoff. “Yeah, you could say I’ve seen their handiwork up close and personal.”

Nick shook his head, and he finally looked around them, eyes narrowing when he saw the white paint next to the table. “So why here?”

“This is…” Deacon hesitated, then decided that he’d already gone this far; might as well get it all uncovered. Or, at least, most of it. “We had some intel. Nothing for sure, but there was the possibility -- more than that, as it turned out -- that there might be someone in this Vault. Considering the history of vault dwellers…” He managed the start of a smirk. “Well I’m sure you heard how that one in DC threw the place into chaos.”

“Plenty of stories from caravaners,” Nick agreed. “Helped tear apart the Enclave or something.”

“Exactly. If you believe that, or even the rumors of the one out west all those years back, they have a tendency to be forces of nature. Give a huge boost to whoever earns their favor.” It sounded even more ridiculous when he said it out loud, but Deacon pressed on, turning to look out over the Vault and nodding toward it once. “So I waited here. Good view of the door, and it’s pretty damn obvious when it opens. Tracked her progress once she came up, might’ve helped out once or twice from the sidelines.”

Nick was staring at him again, and Deacon couldn’t read his expression from this angle. It wasn’t disapproving, at the very least. Maybe just curious.

Either way, wasn’t much to do about it now.

“We’re on our last legs,” Deacon said, and he let his voice get firm. “The Railroad was never exactly a huge force to contend with, and now we’ve got those assholes in their blimp around, too; last I heard, they weren’t exactly the open-minded types when it came to synths. So Bullseye -- I wish I was exaggerating when I say she’s pretty much the last chance we’ve got.”

It was silent for a minute or so. Deacon fought down the growing wariness, tried to remind himself that Nick had earned that much trust, at least, but the urge to pull on a grin and try to pass the whole thing off as an overly-dramatic joke was still strong.

“That’s a hell of a lot of faith to put in one person,” Nick said, “especially for you. What if she had ended up mixed with the Brotherhood?”

Deacon heard himself laugh before he could stop it. “Well I imagine we’d be even more screwed. It was a long shot, but practically everything we do these days is. For once, one of the risks seems to be paying off.” He pulled a chip of paint off of the wood next to him and then scratched at the back of his head. “Bottom line is, if anyone’s going to get into the Institute, it’s her. Right now that’s the only way we might have a shot at bringing them down.”

Nick considered that, then nodded slowly. “So she has to stay alive.”

“She  _ has  _ to stay alive. Dez gets that, it’s why she’s on my ass about it so much.” Well, at least now he was actually feeling like he could sleep. How the hell did people have honest conversations all the time? It was exhausting. “Just...keep that in mind when we head south. If we’re actually going to take those bastards out, we need Carly. She’s the priority.”

“So leave you to the ghouls is what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Nick looked surprised. The entire mood was a hell of a lot more tense than Deacon ever liked it to be, and he offered a quick grin instead. Probably wasn’t convincing. Nothing like that ever convinced Nick.

Maybe he really was losing his touch.

“I’m still not one for the existential talks,” Deacon said, hoping he could at least keep his voice light. “But you wanted my reasoning.”

“Guess I did.” Nick tapped the back of the chair a few times, his eyes on the Vault below. “Barely even hear rumors about the Railroad these days, I didn’t realize…”

“We try to keep it that way. If we seem too weak the Institute might decide it’ll be easy pickings and just finish the job.”

“Too strong,” Nick pointed out, “and they might decide to take out a threat before you go on the offensive.” Deacon gave a conceding shrug and they were silent again for a moment. Then Nick was looking at him again, and Deacon could tell the question wouldn’t be one he liked. “Were you there? When the Coursers showed up?”

Definitely not a question he liked, if only because he made a very good effort to not think about that day. Going back with Carly was supposed to have been the last time. Of course, he had sort of brought this one on personally.

“Yeah.” Not like he could kid himself -- the memories of it came back whether he wanted them to or not. “I was there.”

Damn, he was being way more honest than he liked tonight.

Nick, to his credit, just nodded. He didn’t look pitying or worried or whatever else Deacon might have expected. Judging by the silence, he wasn’t even expecting the conversation to continue past that, and Deacon certainly wasn’t about to volunteer it.

They stood by the small table for a few minutes, each staring at some point down the hill. When the silence finally was broken, it certainly wasn’t how Deacon expected it to be.

“Jack?” Nick asked, and Deacon’s laugh was sharper than usual, but surprisingly genuine.

“Nope.”

“Christopher.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever even met a Christopher.”

“Harold.”

“Who the hell is named Harold these days?”

Nick snorted. “I’ll have you know I’ve met several Harolds over the years. Though, granted, one of them might have been a ghoul.”

“I look like a ghoul to you?” Deacon asked, and then paused to consider it. “I mean it’s doable, but the whole withered skin look does not work with this bone structure.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They went back to the settlement a few minutes after that and Nick split off at the main road, heading toward the bridge. Deacon tried to push away his paranoia about sleeping in such an open area and returned to his mattress, letting himself stare at the pieces of sky through the holes in the ceiling before he took his sunglasses off and tried to get comfortable.

He was tired, at least, but now instead of the Sea his mind was stuck on an endless loop of the conversation -- if him rambling and Nick barely saying a word could be called that.

Hell, he was never that honest. Didn’t have an honest bone in his body. Or maybe just one. A small one, in his hand or something.

It was rare to have a few sentences in a row all be the truth, let alone that entire dump of information. He wasn’t the sharing type, but for some reason Nick had seemed like the right person to tell, and it hadn’t been as awful as it could have.

_ Shit. _

He was getting attached.

Friends weren’t part of the Railroad, not with how risky the work was, and Deacon was a prime example of setting things like interpersonal relationships well aside for the sake of the job. He was good a that, and in the long run it had probably kept him moderately sane. Carly might be the odd exception, but she was the exception to a lot these days. Nick…

Nick definitely wasn’t.

Deacon swore under his breath as he rolled over, trying to ignore the strange smell embedded in the fabric of the mattress. They had a job to do, and a damned important one at that. A dangerous one, probably even more so than Deacon usually saw. He couldn’t afford to get attached. There were a whole lot of very good reasons to avoid making friends.

That obviously meant he had to do what he did best:

Pull on a convincing mask, stamp that shit down, and avoid ever looking at it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am being a relatively successful adult. Don't entirely know how to feel about it, but oh boy is it complicated.
> 
> On the plus side, I got to come home for my sister's wedding and she helped me fixed the ending to this chapter which I had been staring at for ages and didn't actually like until last night. She's pretty great like that.  
> Next chapter finally sees the Glowing Sea in all of its green fun. Thank all of you, as per usual, for your patience, and - also as per usual - feel free to come find me on [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com) where I yell about a lot of things!


	14. only time will tell if we're all just cynics on the run

The noise power armor made was not something Deacon attributed to stealth. He imagined a well-tuned suit would be quieter, but this one had sat on a roof for a century or two before being pounded back into working order by a guy who had likely never seen a set up close before.

It was not the ideal way to travel, especially for someone so used to sticking to the shadows.

A long journey with a very loud and stubborn woman in the lead.

They were lucky, at least, that Carly knew exactly where to go this time. She had had the foresight to mark Virgil’s place on her Pip-Boy’s map, so now it was just a matter of actually crossing the Sea to get there.

None of them knew what they’d run into. Carly had started from a completely different area when she went the first time, and coming from the north instead of the east made the territory completely unfamiliar to her too. Not an ideal way to travel, especially in a place like that, but going back to Boston first and trying to retrace her steps would add more time than it was worth.

True to his word, Preston had given them a bag of supplies before they left that morning; a few boxes of small ammo they had found on scouting trips, what first aid they could spare, and somehow Deacon had ended up with an extra sweater. Not that he would admit to needing it, but there was a hint of cold in the air that might end up meaning snow later on.

Just what they needed, really. Frozen radiation.

Nick didn’t notice the cold and Carly had the power armor plus the deceptively-dense Courser’s uniform. Deacon knew that if it did end up snowing, he’d feel every single bit of it.

They went south, following any roads until they inevitably started turning toward Boston. Carly kept the armor’s helmet off, hanging it on a hook on one shoulder to keep her hands free. She didn’t seem particularly happy to be trudging through the Commonwealth in the full suit, but it wasn’t like they could just teleport to where it would start being more useful than cumbersome.

It made the Institute’s methods of travel all the more enticing.

“Never got how they could just…” Carly waved one arm and pulled a face. “I mean they had entire squadrons in this stuff, marching for hours, day after day...I don’t know how the hell they managed it.”

“Drugs, most likely,” Nick said. “From what I remember, there were a hell of a lot of drugs involved.”

Carly grunted, pausing at the crest of a hill to scan the area ahead through her scope. “Guess you’re not wrong. Think I’ll pass on that, though. Just plan on never touching this thing again once we get back.”

“Hopefully you won’t need to.” Deacon glanced over at her, and then up once he remembered she was actually taller than he was in the armor. “Kinda throws subtlety out the window.”

“Yeah,” Nick snorted, “like you’re great at that as it is.”

Deacon fought the urge to reply, keeping his eyes on Carly as she lowered the gun with a grimace.

“Looks like a camp under that bridge,” she said. “Don’t think it’s Raiders, too clean.”

“In this area, probably Gunners,” Deacon said. “Think we can skirt around?”

Carly hefted the gun up again, doing another wider sweep and then nodding. “Think so. Might need to go through some thicker brush to manage it, but I’ll take a mole rat or two over those guys.”

There wasn’t much talking on this trip. Deacon knew it was at least partially because of him; he was normally the one who would purposefully break silences with whatever came to mind. But he’d picked his mask and put it firmly on. He was doing his job, he wasn’t getting attached to people. Simple.

Only he could tell the other two were starting to wonder.

He could guess that Carly knew him well enough by now -- or, rather, had accepted that she didn’t know him very well -- to take it in stride. She probably wouldn’t have much of an issue.

Nick probably would, and it was Nick that Deacon was trying to keep some distance from.

Friends weren’t a thing in his job. Friends were dangerous.

Damn that detective for being _likeable_.

Deacon let himself be grumpy about that and let it be further fueled by the fact that the brush they ended up in was also wet. He was damp within the first few minutes, and that was enough reason to maintain a sullen stare at the ground ahead.

They did run into one mole rat. Carly kicked it away, and if it survived the encounter, it didn’t try again. Deacon had just cleared the worst of the bushes and was squinting to the south when the crack of a high caliber rifle made them all freeze; the bullet planted itself in the mud next to Carly’s boot and splattered the metal with grime.

“Shit,” Carly whispered. She had one hand on her rifle, scanning the area. The fact that no one had actually taken off their heads was a good sign, at the very least.

Probably.

“Out of the power armor,” a voice above them barked, “or the next one is in your head.”

Carly’s hand stayed on her gun for a few more seconds as she looked around; Deacon could see the moment she spotted their assailant, when her eyes narrowed and both hands lifted slowly.

The Gunner was perched at the crest of a small hill, just south of the underpass they had made the efforts to avoid. If they were Raiders, it’d probably be easy to take them out, even if the guy had friends. With Gunners, though, his friends were likely in very strategic places, and even from this distance, Deacon was fairly certain the large cylinder propped up at his side was a missile launcher.

They weren’t about to shoot their way out of this one. Not without wasting a lot of ammo that could be used in the Sea.

“Get out of the armor,” Deacon hissed.

Carly glanced down at him disbelievingly. “And lose the only advantage we’ve got?” she shot back. “If I can get the helmet on quick enough --”

“Then he goes after one of us instead.” He let himself glance over at Nick quickly and then shook his head once. “The only way to get Gunners off your back is to pay them or kill them, and since we don’t have the resources for either, you’ve gotta trust me. Step out, keep your hands at your sides, and don’t move.”

There was a pause. Carly still looked skeptical, and then her eyes snapped back up to the Gunner when he called down again: “Won’t tell ya a third time. Out of the damn armor!”

She eyed Deacon for another second before sighing. The hydraulics hissed and the frame parted enough for her to step out, leaving the rifle hanging on the suit’s shoulder. The fusion core slipped out and was folded into the lining of the black uniform she wore before she shifted to the right, her arms still at her sides.

“At least one of them is gonna have to come down,” Deacon said. “Let me do the talking; just look as intimidating as you can. And Nick…” He hesitated and then let out a quick breath. “Don’t say anything.”

“You got a plan or something?” Nick muttered, and Deacon tried to make his nod confident.

“I’ve got something.”

They stayed rooted in place until a second Gunner appeared from behind the hill and jogged down to them, hunting rifle held at the ready.

“Nothin’ personal, you understand, but there’s an insurance fee for just strolling through these parts.” She hesitated a few yards away, eyes narrowing when they finally landed on Nick. “The hell is this?” she asked.

Deacon made sure he looked as disdainful as possible, giving her a sweeping look. “I’m willing to give you a chance,” he said slowly, as if he were making sure she could understand. “Stand down, and I’ll overlook this interference with Institute business.”

He realized that he didn’t exactly look the part of an Institute scientist -- the dirty jeans and ratty sweater didn’t scream top-of-the-line. He just had to trust that he wouldn’t be the one they focused on.

The Gunner faltered, recoiling a step, and sure enough, her eyes locked on Carly before going wide with realization.

“Boss!” She had to angle her head to call over one shoulder while not looking away from the small group. “Boss, they’ve got a Courser, what’re your orders?”

“They’ve got what?”

“A fuckin’ _Courser_ , _what are your orders?”_

It was admirable, at the very least, that she was still making sure to answer to the man on the hill. He swung the missile launcher over his shoulder and came down the slope himself, glaring between the three of them.

“Coursers don’t just wander around in power armor, Harri, you know that,” he growled. “Now who the hell are you?”

Deacon gave a long-suffering sigh. “That really isn’t any of your concern,” he said. “We are escorting this synth back, and you are setting us off our schedule.”

Both of the Gunner’s looked over at Nick, who was doing a very good job of looking completely devoid of any kind of emotion. The leader, who Deacon had mentally titled Boss, shifted his gun in his hands but otherwise didn’t look convinced.

“Institute doesn’t come through this area,” Boss said. “Anyway, never heard of a so-called Courser being that short.”

Deacon wondered just how accurate the tales of Coursers were, but he was saved thinking of a retort.

“It might be relevant to mention,” Carly said, “Commander Lakin assumed the same thing.”

The ice in her voice almost caught Deacon off guard. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her sound like that before, and was rather glad for it.

Boss had frozen, staring at her, and glanced back at Deacon once before he shifted on his feet. It looked nervous. They were getting somewhere, then.

“Lakin?” he snapped. “How you know that name?”

Carly stayed silent and Deacon rolled his eyes. “There is no sense of communication up here,” he muttered. “I take it you haven’t gotten the report from Greentech Genetics.”

“Greentech’s been quiet,” Harri said, her voice low like she was trying to whisper. “We were gonna send a runner there next week if they hadn’t…” She trailed off, and there was a real look of fear now when Carly tilted her head to one side.

“They interfered,” she said plainly.

The Gunners seemed at a loss. Harri looked over her shoulder once, probably toward where their reinforcements were stationed, like she was trying to judge their odds.

“As I said,” Deacon spoke up, “we have a schedule to keep. I am willing to overlook this once you have all of your men stand down. Otherwise, well...”

There was a sudden sound to his right, a strange whirring like machinery starting up, and it took some focus to not react. At first he assumed it was a Gunner he hadn’t noticed warming up a weapon. When he did glance over, grateful that the sunglasses hid his eyes, it was surprising to realize that the noise was coming from Nick. The yellow glow of his eyes was more pronounced than usual, and though it was hard to tell what exactly the noise was, it was definitely intimidating without context.

It did the trick. Both Gunners glanced at each other and then Boss turned on his heel, gave a sharp whistle, and made some wide gesture over his head.

“You try anything,” he warned when he turned back, “and we’ll take the shot anyway. Now take your damn...synths and get the hell out of here.”

Carly waited for Deacon to nod at her before she replaced the fusion core and stepped back into the power armor. Nick grew quiet again, his face still motionless when they started walking again, forcing the Gunners to step out of the way. Deacon heard Boss snort once.

“Institute bastards,” he muttered. He and Harri started back toward the overpass, and Deacon resisted the urge to look back to make sure they weren’t prepping that missile launcher.

They got over the hill without incident. The moment the bridge was out of sight, Carly let out a rush of air, the tension she released visible even with the power armor.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, glancing over her shoulder. “Holy _shit_ , that was brilliant, I didn’t think they’d buy it.” The metal creaked as she stretched out both arms before letting them swing down and looking at Nick. “What the hell was that noise you made, Nick?”

He grinned. Deacon tried not to acknowledge how much of a relief it was to see expressions on his face again; even that short stretch without them had been eerie.

“I just ramped up the cooling fans,” Nick said. “Sounds a lot more impressive than it is. Really, though, that was quick thinking, well done.” He clapped a hand to Deacon’s shoulder, and Deacon shifted out of it with the ease that came from years of practice.

“Should know by now that my ideas are always brilliant,” he noted lightly, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Let’s make sure we’re actually out of sight.”

He could feel Nick hesitate for a split second and pushed that aside too. Wasn’t relevant.

He was doing his job.

It took the better part of the day to get to the edge of Natick. Carly mentioned at one point that she used to be able to drive to the police station there in a less than an hour, depending on the traffic.

That was a strange concept -- he’d seen all of the cars scattered around the Commonwealth, even seen plenty of those old nuclear reactors blow when hit with one too many stray bullets, but imagining them running was tough. The idea of getting from one side of the city to the other in under an hour, and doing so without fear of being shot on the way, seemed absurd.

Then again, so did teleporting to some secret laboratories using instructions given by a super mutant.

Carly glared at one of the rusted cars like its inability to run was a personal offense before she glanced toward the horizon. “Let’s find a place for the night,” she said. “I’ve heard stories about the middle of town that I’d rather not stumble onto when it’s dark.”

“And you want to get out of the armor, don’t you?” Nick asked, and Carly groaned.

“I _really_ do.”

There was an old storefront far enough from the lake’s edge that the likelihood of a bug infestation was low. They did the usual sweep through the building, checking all of the dark corners for ghouls or mole rat nests that might try to surprise them in the middle of the night. The sun had started dipping behind the hills by the time Carly stepped out of the metal suit with a relieved sigh, her shoulders rolling.

“Hate that thing,” she muttered, letting the frame close again and tugging the fusion core out of its socket. “Feel like canned meat or something.”

“Like we need more tin cans around here.” Deacon secured his rifle across his back and tugged his pistol out of the holster. “I’m going to check that building next door while it’s still light; might have some food that’s still sealed.”

Nick moved a few steps toward him by the time he got to the door. “If you wanted a hand --”

“I think I can handle it.” Deacon knew his voice was sharp, and reminded himself that it was good, in the long run, tried hard to ignore the flash of confusion on Nick’s face.

Neither of them protested, just watched curiously as he stepped outside. He was barely on the crumbling sidewalk, pausing to double check the ammo in his gun, when he caught the edge of a hissed conversation behind him. It was too quiet to understand the entire thing, but Deacon felt he could make a pretty safe bet on what the topic was.

“How the hell should I know?” he heard Carly ask when her voice raised marginally. “Just ask or something.”

“Come on, you know he’d just lie,” Nick shot back. “Wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.”

Deacon made himself walk away after that. Part of him was almost proud that Nick at least knew that much about him. The rest determinedly pushed it away, because that was exactly what he was trying to avoid.

No attachments. That’s how this job worked.

It just usually wasn’t this hard to manage. He felt he could mostly blame Nick for being so damn stubborn about things.

Deacon did scrounge up a few cans of Cram that were dented but not broken. He tossed one at Carly when he came back and couldn’t resist a quick, “Look, it’s you,” before retreating to his corner. He could see Nick eye him in his peripheral, but it didn’t last long.

“Both of you should get some sleep,” Nick said eventually, propping his gun against his shoulder as he went to the door. “Gonna be a hell of a day tomorrow.”

Probably an understatement, all things considered. Deacon settled on the floor, armed folded behind his head. The suit of power armor in the corner was a little eerie, even with the helmet sitting on the floor next to it. Carly lying down nearby blocked his view of it, though, for the most part.

She adjusted her bag and then turned, propped up on one elbow to consider him carefully. “Hey.” Deacon glanced over, realized she wouldn’t be able to tell with his glasses still on, and nodded shortly instead. Carly hesitated and then sighed. “You alright?”

They both knew it would be a lie. Deacon flashed a quick grin anyway. “Just fine, boss. You?”

She actually thought about it. One hand picked at a small hole in the black coat she wore. Then it lifted to touch the stitches on the side of her face, and she grimaced. “I’m not...great.”

Carly turned back around, tucking herself more tightly into the coat. Deacon turned his attention back to the ceiling, taking a few minutes before he pulled his glasses off and tried to sleep.

It would definitely be a hell of a day tomorrow.

* * *

Carly had been right about one thing: the Glowing Sea _sucked_.

She had secured the helmet on when they saw the first signs of scorched trees and cracked earth. Deacon tossed back the first dose of Rad-X and tried to estimate how long the bottle would last them. Carly said the cave was no more than three hours away, ideally, but it was impossible to know what they would meet along the way that would slow their progress.

It took a while to realize that the increasing prickling on his neck wasn’t the chilled wind, but the radiation that the Sea was so famous for. Apparently the levels weren’t ridiculously high through most of it, but so consistent that it would be the build-up of rads that killed someone. At least they had come as prepared as possible, and as long as the whole thing didn’t take too long, it shouldn’t be _that_ much of a problem.

But that was under ideal circumstances, and those never seemed to follow Carly.

Barely twenty minutes in, they had to divert course to avoid a glowing collection of water where a large pack of ghouls was napping. That led them straight into a cliff-face, and it took a good half hour to find a route around that.

By that time the radiation felt a lot more noticeable. Deacon had to resist the urge to scratch at the building itch on random patches of skin and made a promise to himself that he’d never come back to this place.

He, of course, made sure to narrate the whole thought process out loud, even if it was in a hissed whisper. It didn't get him any sympathy, but that was to be expected; he had been the one who insisted on coming with.

Carly seemed to be doing better than the last time -- or at least he assumed as much, judging by the state she’d been in when she got back -- but the power armor still was very bad at stealth, and it had Deacon on edge with every creaking step. If he survived the persistent rads, he could only hope to also survive the impending ulcer.

Ghouls and mole rats they could handle just fine, as long as there weren’t too many of them. Everything else they tried to give a wide berth. Sometimes sneaking around wasn’t an option, since Carly made far too much noise moving to just slip past anything that still had ears. In those cases they ended up hunkered down behind rocks or rubble until whatever it was just passed by.

They reached the crater five hours and five doses of Rad-X later. Even with the Pip Boy inside the power armor, Deacon could hear the geiger counter start to panic as they got closer. Carly noticed too, glancing down at her arm instinctively before she gave an annoyed huff.

“Too many rads, even with the pills,” she said. The mechanical edge that the helmet gave her voice was always creepy. “I’m going to head down for a few minutes. They might have some extra supplies, not like they leave this place much.”

“Children of Atom?” Deacon asked, and he gave a low whistle when it looked like she nodded. “Watch your back with them, boss; don’t want one of them suddenly deciding that you need to be “divided” or whatever on the spot.”

“These ones seemed peaceful enough the last time, I’m not too worried.” She adjusted the gun on her shoulder anyway and then gestured with her free hand to Nick. “You stay up here with him. Watch each other’s backs, I shouldn’t be long.”

The metal armor creaked as she turned and started down the slope. Deacon waited until he couldn’t hear the clicking of the geiger counter before sighing heavily. He found the nearest boulder that didn’t look ready to slice him open and sank onto it, pulling his knit hat off for a few seconds to rub at his head.

This was, without a doubt, the actual worst place he had ever been.

He was almost adamant enough about it to say as much out loud, but caught himself first; that would just end up initiating a conversation.

Not like Nick seemed to need an excuse.

“Have some interesting stories after this, at the very least,” he noted. “Not that most people would believe it.”

The slight nausea wasn’t making it any easier to focus, which really sucked, because he _needed_ to focus. He needed to make sure he knew what he was saying, how he was saying it, how he was presenting himself...and hell, there was a reason it felt easier to let his guard down.

Deacon settled on a short grunt. He regretted it a moment later when Nick looked concerned and moved closer.

“You holding up alright?”

 _Dammit, Nick…_ He glanced up, pushing on a grin and knowing it looked as fake as it felt. “Never better.”

Nick frowned, shifting the bag on his shoulders. “We’ve got the Rad-Away, probably wouldn’t hurt to start flushing out some of that crap early…”

“Y’know, I was kinda thinking I’d find one of those little lakes and go for a dip, see if I get super powers.”

“Deacon --”

“I’m fine.” There was an edge to his voice that he didn’t bother disguising. It got Nick to hesitate, but that didn’t last long.

“Alright,” Nick began with what sounded like an impatient breath, “what the hell did I do?”

Deacon didn’t bother looking up, but he shook his head. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s bullshit.” It had been a while since that accusation had sounded that frustrated. That probably meant he was doing something right. “You’ve barely said a word to me since we left Sanctuary.”

“Well,” Deacon pointed out, “we’ve been kinda busy, if you haven’t noticed.”

Nick shook his head. “Been busy since the start,” he said. “Nah, this is something else, something with me, so again -- what did I do?”

That was the problem with traveling with a damn detective. Deacon was used to dealing with normal Commonwealth residents, people he could slap on a different face from one meeting to the next and barely get a second glance. This extended contact was the trouble, Nick was perceptive enough without having this much material to work with.

Precisely why he needed to put an end to the whole idea quickly.

“Don’t take it personally,” Deacon said eventually. This whole thing would be much easier if he could focus properly. “I’m an asshole to everyone.”

“No,” Nick insisted, “you’re not. You just apparently want everyone to think you are.”

“You flatter me, detective, but there’s generally a reason people come to that conclusion.”

Nick’s sigh bordered on exasperated. “So what, you get to shut down and I don’t even get a reason?”

Deacon shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “Nothing to have a reason for.”

There was a moment when he thought Nick would keep arguing, but then the resolve seemed to vanish abruptly. Yellow eyes narrowed, and Nick threw both hands out briefly in defeat before turning with a huff of breath as he went back to the edge of the crater.

Apparently the whole thing was working.

Deacon tilted his head back to stare up at the green-tinted sky and tried not to think about why that felt like anything but a victory.

Carly creaked her way back up the hill a few minutes later with just a couple of cans of purified water to show for her trouble. She popped her helmet off just long enough to swallow half of one along with a dose of Rad-X and then started them toward the cave again.

“We came at it from a weird angle last time,” she said. “Kinda right on top of the entrance, there was a lot of ungraceful sliding involved. The canyon’s a lot easier to get through, leads right to his front door.”

“As long as he’s expecting us,” Deacon muttered. “Not to keen on sneaking up on a super mutant, scientist or not.”

“He knows I was coming back. Got turrets at the entrance that should give him plenty of warning anyway, they still beep even if they don’t shoot at me.”

Nick gave her a scrutinizing look. “Even in the suit? How’s that gonna go over -- knock-knock, it’s the Railroad, in full power armor?”

She paused. The helmet made it impossible to read anything on her face, and even body language was near impossible to determine. Just another terrible thing about those suits.

“He doesn’t actually know about the Railroad,” she said after a moment. “Or, at least, I didn’t bring it up. Figured an old Institute scientist wouldn’t really...appreciate that little detail.”

Deacon snorted. “Yeah, good call, I’d say we keep it that way.”

The terrain was a lot less forgiving in the final stretch. It took a good deal of scrambling up rockslides and freezing in place in case a particularly big chunk of dislodged earth would end up alerting anything nearby. Deacon scraped the heels of his hands raw at some point and tore at least one new hole in his jeans, and he still _really_ hated this place.

It was marginally easier when they got into the canyon; Carly was a lot more sure of their course, and there were fewer places to watch. If there were more people in the Sea, Deacon might have been more worried about snipers along the taller rock edges, but as it was, he doubted the Radscorpions had rifles. Carly took point, the metal joints still creaking with every step, Deacon ended up in the middle, scanning the sides anyway, and Nick kept a close eye on the direction they’d come from.

“We’re close,” Carly muttered. “It shouldn’t take too long; Virgil’s been working on the blueprints since I left last time, so the code should hopefully let him fill in the last few parts. Hopefully we can get to the edge of the Sea before sundown, I don’t want --”

“Hold on,” Nick interrupted, “you hear that?”

All three of them stopped, guns lifting instinctively. Nick was looking around carefully, eyes narrowed, and Deacon wondered just how far through the perpetual green haze he could see.

“I’ve got nothing,” Carl said after a moment. “What d’you think?”

It took a few seconds for him to shake his head, rifle lowering a few inches. “Not sure. Keep an eye out.”

“As opposed to what,” Deacon muttered, “striding in with blindfolds on?”

That got a glare. He’d expected it to. Hell, he just wanted to get to the damn cave so he could actually sit down and start flushing some of the rads out. The faster they got out of this place, the better.

He should have known that meant it wouldn’t be easy.

Deacon was pretty certain he could see the cave’s entrance when they rounded the next bend. It was like some kind of poetic irony.

They all heard the deep huff of air behind a pile of collapsed boulders and the scrape of something very large and very scaly across the rocks. They all froze at the same time, and though Deacon couldn’t see Carly’s face, he was pretty certain she would have the same look of dread that he _could_ see on Nick’s.

Figured. As if the Sea weren’t bad enough by itself, it had to add a fucking Deathclaw.

Judging by the low rumbling growl, it knew they were there. Outrunning one of those things wasn’t exactly an option, especially in terrain that none of them knew.

Great. They were dead.

The Deathclaw had apparently been asleep, which would explain why they hadn’t seen it. It stood, tail dislodging some rocks when it swished from one side to the other, and zeroed in on the three of them almost immediately.The low growl rumbled louder, and it took a few steps closer, still unsure of the strange prey that had woken it.

 _"Shit_ …” Nick muttered.

“Shoot for the eyes if you can,” Carly said quietly. “If not...try to find some weak spot.”

They didn’t get a chance to acknowledge that; the Deathclaw lunged, and they were forced to scatter. The only advantage they had was in numbers, and even that wasn’t much. Deacon had his hunting rifle and the pistol he’d picked up from the Gunner last week. Nick had his revolver and the laser rifle that was now firing in rapid bursts to the left. Carly had her own pistol and the huge rifle across her shoulder -- Deacon realized he wasn’t sure what she’d done with her old rifle, but boy would that extra firepower have been useful right about now.

None of them had anything built to take out something like a Deathclaw, especially in close quarters. But damn if they weren’t going to try anyway.

There were huge gouges in the dirt where the first swipe had landed, and the Deathclaw immediately spun around, terrifyingly agile for its size. It kept looking between them, like it was trying to decide which one to go after first.

Deacon got his rifle to his shoulder and his first shot hit the side of the scaled neck, glancing off uselessly. The Deathclaw turned to glare at him, tail swishing impatiently, and he had to backpedal out of the way when it swiped almost halfheartedly in his direction.

The laser fire Nick was shooting off from behind a small clump of rocks didn’t seem to even be noticeable. The scales probably deflected a lot of energy damage, which was just great, made things so much easier for them. Nick apparently realized that himself and pulled his revolver out instead; the first shot from that was completely drowned out by a resounding _crack_ from Carly’s rifle that echoed around the canyon walls.

That seemed to decide it for the Deathclaw. The bullet didn’t hit anything vulnerable, but it did determine Carly as the biggest current threat. With the power armor, she also happened to be the slowest, and the Deathclaw’s uncertain movements suddenly became more focused on charging at the hunk of metal that had dared to wake it up.

He should probably have been a lot more terrified than he was. Deacon felt he could partially blame that on the mild radiation sickness that he knew was setting in. He _did_ , however, still know for a fact that the giant homicidal lizard going after Carly was _not_ a good thing.

Carly was stumbling back, her next shot going wild as claws scraped against the chest of the armor, leaving thin scratches in the coating of rust. It was clear she didn’t have any kind of experience with the gun, even having used hunting rifles before, and using the thing accurately in power armor would probably have been difficult even without the imminent threat of death.

She couldn’t keep an eye on the Deathclaw and the terrain at the same time, especially with the helmet, and the rough ground inevitably won in the end, tipping her over enough that even the suit’s stabilizers couldn’t react in time.

Deacon heard himself shouting and didn’t realize he was running forward until he had to lift the barrel of his gun a lot more to aim for the Deathclaw’s head. When a bullet actually stuck between two scales, it turned on him, and the low growl was way past a warning now.

He had just enough time to realize this had been a terrible idea before he was backhanded almost impatiently and felt something important crack as the air was forced out of his lungs.

Plus side: he’d successfully gotten the Deathclaw’s attention off of Carly.

Downside: he was pretty sure he’d slid at least four feet on his back, the blurred vision and weird ringing sound told him his head had hit pretty damn hard, and now the Deathclaw was very interested in _him_ instead.

The blurry hulking shape strode toward him even as he fought to get his gun back around to face the right direction. There was more shouting -- mostly likely not from him, but it was hard to tell -- and the Deathclaw hesitated, horned head sweeping around to stare at something behind it.

Its roar cut through the ringing in Deacon’s ears, and he braced himself for the sweeping claws.

They never came.

The ground shook, but once he got his eyes open -- when had they even closed? -- Deacon could see that it had jumped at something else. Carly was back on her feet, rifle firing from her hip, but she wasn’t currently the target.

He didn’t fully register the building panic until it evaporated when Nick’s voice registered beside him. Not that he’d understood a word of it.

“What’s --”

“Can you stand?” Nick asked, nearly shouting to be heard over another roar.

Deacon started shaking his head before the question sunk in and he nodded stubbornly, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “And you’re supposed to leave me to the ghouls, remember?”

“Really? Because I thought we were pretending that conversation never happened.” Nick grabbed Deacon’s arm again, helping tug him to his feet despite the hissed cursing. Yeah, those ribs were definitely cracked. “She’s encased in steel plates, you’re not. Besides,” he jerked his head back toward the Deathclaw’s new tormentor, “we got some backup.”

“Backup?” Deacon stifled a cough and ignored the way his vision swam -- that had been happening way too often lately, how many concussions had he gotten within the past few months? “Who the hell would --”

Another roar cut him off, and he managed to get his rifle halfway up before realizing it wasn’t the Deathclaw that time. It wasn’t quite as animalistic, and familiar in a way he couldn’t place. Still definitely not something he wanted to be in the path of.

So, of course, he ended up running straight toward the fight, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest and Nick shouting something behind him as he tried to heft his gun into something similar to the right shooting position. He still couldn’t see clearly, and the green haze wasn't helping, but as the Deathclaw turned Deacon did see something else green and white and moving fast.

There was also a glimpse of something metallic. A rough, loud shout of, “Get clear!” A bright flash, and then an explosion just as he pulled the trigger that, for a split second, made him think his gun had somehow blown up in his hands.

The next thing Deacon knew, he was jolting awake with a choked gasp and immediately regretting it when his ribs throbbed sharply.

It took a few seconds to get his bearings, and even then it wasn’t particularly helpful; the room was dark and chilled, and he had been lying on a pile of ratty blankets that were probably an attempt at a bed. He fumbled for his gun first (lying next to the blankets) and his glasses next (sitting folded on the rifle’s stock, surprisingly not broken), pushing the latter on before he tried to sit up.

He didn’t notice the IV line at first, and grimaced, tracing it up to a hanging bag of Rad-Away. It was tempting to tug the needle out, but the combination of his stomach trying to dissolve itself and his skin feeling like it was being stabbed by thousands of tiny needles convinced him otherwise. A few more hard blinks let him focus on things a bit further away, and for a few seconds Deacon was pretty damn sure the radiation sickness was a lot worse than he’d thought and had progressed to hallucinations.

Carly had gotten out of the power armor, and apart from a small cut on her forehead, didn’t look much worse for wear. Of course, there wasn’t much skin visible with the Courser uniform, but she didn’t look to be in any kind of pain. And regardless, it was her current company that threw him through a loop.

Deacon had seen plenty of super mutants. Far too many up close and personal. Up until now, he certainly had never seen one wearing a crudely-stitched lab coat.

Virgil. Super mutant. Right, that was what they had come for.

“Well, look who’s still alive.” Carly flashed a tired grin when she turned, and there was some sense of déjà vu – he really had been ending up like this far too often lately. “Not for lack of trying, apparently. Feeling alright?”

His head was still throbbing. The rads hadn’t exactly been kind. The fact that he could breathe without it feeling like a knife was in his side probably meant someone had used a stimpak on the ribs, but they were still sore as hell. Deacon shrugged.

“Never better.” Even his voice was trying to give him away, he hadn’t heard it that rough in a long time. “I take it we won, then.”

“If by ‘we’ you mean the two of them, then sure.” Nick’s voice behind him startled Deacon just enough to make him to flinch, but he felt he could blame that on the headache. He hadn’t noticed the chair sitting against the wall or the detective sitting in it, and silently berated himself for not doing a closer check of the room. “My guns didn’t do shit against that thing. You got knocked out. Neither of us were much help.”

Deacon grunted. After a few seconds he caught himself staring at Virgil’s back – the guy had yet to actually look at him, completely engrossed in whatever he was doing at his terminal – and made himself turn to Carly. “Got yourself another Deathclaw story then, huh boss?”

“Something like that,” she agreed, glancing toward where Deacon assumed the cave entrance was. “Rest up. There’s some water over there, should help flush the rads out a bit quicker. We should be out of here by dawn, right, Virgil?”

That got a much lower grunt, and Virgil turned enough for Deacon to see that he had a pair of glasses that were tiny in comparison to his head wired into place. “I’ll remind you, this is not my field,” he grumbled. It was strange hearing that kind of articulation from a super mutant. “And with these damn hands…”

He didn’t elaborate on that, and after a moment Carly shot Deacon a resigned look and a shrug before she went back to watching Virgil’s progress.

Deacon let himself lean back on his elbows, eyes squeezing shut. He could tell Nick was watching him. That didn’t make him any more eager to start talking, but he also knew it would happen anyway. Couldn’t easily escape while he was tied to the IV line.

“So you sure I didn’t take out that Deathclaw single-handedly?” he asked after what seemed like a suitable pause. “I imagine that would be a much better story than what actually happened.”

Nick snorted quietly. “For you, maybe. You were the one who decided to run straight toward a missile launcher.”

“Is _that_ what he had, I was wondering…”

“Took out the Deathclaw. Also knocked out the idiot close enough to get hit with the shockwave. I can’t imagine that helped the knock on the head you took before that, either.”

Deacon grimaced. “Pretty sure my concussions have concussions at this point.” It took him a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t watching what he said, that the mask he’d put up apparently hadn’t been as sturdy as he’d thought, if it only took a few hits to the head to knock it loose. He was really losing his touch. “I was still doing fine,” he added, his voice lowering. Not like there was a single trace of privacy in this cave, but hey, he could try. “I’m not the priority, remember?”

Nick sighed heavily, leaning forward in his chair. “And you’re also a little more likely to get mauled than someone in power armor,” he said. “If you want to look at it from a purely tactical standpoint, it was a good call.”

The answer was one he figured he probably didn’t want to hear, but Deacon asked it anyway: “What other ways are there to look at it?”

“Just the fact that friends watch each other’s backs,” Nick said matter-of-factly, “even when one of them is being an ass about it.”

Maybe it was partially the concussion, and the rad sickness was likely a factor, but Deacon found it difficult to muster up an objection. After all, it wasn't like Nick was wrong. He and Carly both apparently had the annoying habit of sticking around despite Deacon’s insistence that he worked better alone.

He was trying very hard to remind himself of that fact now.

The Railroad wasn’t a job that encouraged friends. People got hurt, people got killed, it happened all the time. Carly might be the exception, but they needed her, more than they’d needed any other agent in his twenty-some years running with the group. Forming attachments to anyone else was risky, especially when they happened to be a synth that he still didn’t know the whole story to.

One half of him was very insistent about that.

The other half reminded him that it had been a hell of a long time since he’d had someone who, for some reason, still considered them friends after this long.

Deacon was, admittedly, surprised by which side ended up prevailing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I was an ass. Sorry to say the glowing personality the Commonwealth adores doesn’t always hold up.”

“I’m used to that much,” Nick said. His voice had lowered and Deacon had to turn, grateful for the dark lenses hiding his eyes. “I’m not used to it being directed solely at me.”

“Well, it’s nothing personal.” He got a skeptical look for that and sighed. “Alright, so that’s kinda exactly what it was, but not for something you did. It’s just the job.”

Nick scoffed. “Your job is to make a real good effort at alienating people?”

“My job is to see this through.” He started to wave a hand toward Carly before the pain in his ribs, even if it was already lessened, stopped him. “Effectively. By whatever means necessary. Like I said, it’s all we got left, and if for whatever reason things go south…” Deacon hesitated, trying to put together the right words. “There’s a reason most agents are on their own.”

Nick nodded. “Can’t have someone who might be used as leverage”

Deacon shrugged one shoulder and Nick gave a quiet hum. “Suppose that makes sense. So you just make sure you don’t let anyone get close enough to be considered a target.”

Well, at least he picked up on it quickly. Didn’t make it any easier figuring out what to do about it. “At risk of sounding like Tom,” Deacon said, “the Institute has eyes all over the ‘Wealth. If any of us had family and they got wind of it, they wouldn’t hesitate to use them. It’s security.”

Nick considered it for a minute. His eventual nod was slow, and he glanced up at where Carly and Virgil stood. “Suppose I ought to be flattered to be a security risk, in that case. But it’s not gonna work.” He lifted one hand as Deacon started to interrupt. “I might not know you well -- figure almost no one does -- but I know enough. We’re both risking a hell of a lot just hanging around a pissed-off Vault dweller. Institute is after all three of us, regardless. Nothing to be done about that.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “I’m still not the type to go around making friends. Kinda comes with the whole ‘constantly lying thing.”

“Y’know,” Nick said, shifting in his chair to face Deacon more directly, “the way I see it, it’s a little late for that.”

There was that annoying habit of being right again.

Deacon still hesitated, reminded himself again how terrible of an idea it was to form attachments, reminded himself that friends were a luxury the Railroad didn’t get, and went through every way he could think of that it could go wrong.

Nick, apparently, could tell the moment he finally gave up. The hand he stuck out -- the left, the one that still had skin -- was a little unexpected, but Deacon accepted it, this time unsurprised by how strong the grip was. He _was_ surprised when Nick held on and maintained eye contact that Deacon realized had stopped being unsettling some time ago. This time, though, he couldn’t work out the meaning behind it.

He let himself grin a little anyway. “So you trust me for some reason now?”

“Trust is earned,” Nick said. “Call my judgement lax, but after this long, I’d say you’ve managed that much.” Their hands fell again, and Nick pushed himself to his feet. “Drink your water. You’re gonna want as much of that radiation out as possible before we start the trip back.”

Deacon watched him cross the cave to Carly’s side, and he didn’t miss the sidelong look Virgil gave him. It took longer than it logically should have to look away, and he frowned down at the can of water as he opened it.

He’d had friends. Maybe not for very long, and not in a while, but it wasn’t a completely unfamiliar concept. He knew what having friends was like.

This was, somehow, slightly different.

Well, _shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:  
> First of all, thank you all so much for your patience with this one. There's been A Lot happening in the land of adulthood, including getting an actual paying (part time retail) job. School started up again, which I of course am no longer in, so that's weird. But really, this chapter just took forever.
> 
> You may have noticed there are chapter titles now! I went back and added the previous 13, and that'll continue on for the foreseeable future. They're all lines from songs that I associate with the main trio here, or any combination therein, and there might be a couple cases of using the same song twice, but y'know. Have a sort of playlist if you wanna go look them up!
> 
> Some of you have found me on [Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com) which brings me all kinds of joy. Always feel free to come chat with/yell at me over there!
> 
> And last but certainly not least, there is (shockingly and wonderfully) actual art for this ship. I may have commissioned one myself, but other was just drawn and sent to me out of the blue and I sort of died a lot that day. (Thank you again so much for that, friend, I still randomly open it to stare for a few minutes.)  
> [This lovely piece](http://under-neon-lights.tumblr.com/post/149388306072/if-you-are-intrigued-by-the-idea-of-an-old) by under-neon-lights (give them so much love, seriously, it makes me so happy)  
> [And also this one](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com/post/147219486599/the-few-times-deacon-actually-does-sleep-he) that I commissioned from the lovely [haalpine](http://haalpine.tumblr.com) who is also wonderful and great.
> 
> That got a bit long, but regardless. You're all lovely!


	15. and I think oh, how I miss that bright sun

It took a couple of hours and multiple bathroom breaks at the cave’s entrance to get rid of most of the radiation. Deacon wasn’t sure how well they were sheltered from the fallout; they weren’t completely free from rads, but Carly’s geiger counter had settled into the occasional click instead of the persistent buzzing it did outside.

Maybe Virgil had something in place to keep the worst of it out. It didn’t seem worth asking about.

Carly admitted to using a stimpak for the ribs that Deacon  were  certain had been cracked. “Only half,” she told him, “and Virgil had some extras anyway, it’s not like he uses them.”

Since he’d been unconscious while the medicine had been working, and it had brought the bruising down to a patchy red instead of the black he’d been expecting, Deacon didn’t bother complaining. It would still be tender if he got hit square in the chest, but he could breathe and move without any problem. The only issue on the way back would be the radiation all over again.

And all of the animals that wanted to kill them.

They stayed in the cave for the night. There was a strange white noise, between the wind outside, the whir of the turrets, and Virgil’s slow typing at his terminal.

No one slept much. Virgil finished his work about an hour before dawn.

“I did the best I could,” he said when he handed Carly a stack of wrinkled papers. At a glance, it looked like the drawings on them were done in crayon. It made an absurd kind of sense, given the size of Virgil’s hands, but felt ridiculous nonetheless. “As I said, this isn’t my field; I know humans better than machines.”

“I’m sure we can piece together the rest,” Carly said, flipping through the pages with a look that said she wouldn’t be able to piece together a single part of it. “This is way more than I would’ve ever expected, Virgil. Thank you.”

He grunted. “Just remember our deal. You get in there, you find what I need.”

Carly nodded, folding the papers carefully and putting them into one of the smaller pockets of her bag. “I’ll do what I can.”

Virgil watched as they packed up. It was more than a little unnerving; the combination of the guy being an Institute scientist, defected or not, _and_ a super mutant, had Deacon constantly on high alert. It didn’t help when he hefted a massive missile launcher onto his shoulder.

“I’ll walk you to the edge of the canyon,” he said as Carly gave him a curious look, and Deacon fought the urge to draw his pistol. “Make sure there are no more of those monsters lurking on my doorstep. You’re on your own after that.”

Deacon wasn’t sure he preferred an Institute escort over a deathclaw attack, but Carly nodded as she returned the fusion core to the power armor.

She got back in the suit, Deacon took his first dose of Rad-X for the day. It was a strange little group that trooped out of the cave: a living artifact encased in another artifact, a synth detective, a professional liar, and an Institute scientist who was also a super mutant. Sounded like the start of a bar joke.

Virgil seemed very interested in Nick, not even slightly subtle about his curious looks. He took a while to say anything, and Deacon felt it should have been less surprising when the question was addressed to Carly.

“So this is the one from Diamond City?”

Defected or not, he was still from the Institute, and that was how they talked about synths: like the party in question wasn’t even there, or couldn’t understand. Even with the security protocols, so many synths that got out could remember that very clearly.

It was satisfying that Nick was quick to respond himself.

“In the synthetic flesh,” he said. “And with functioning ears, too.”

Virgil looked surprised -- though it was harder to tell, with the whole super mutant thing. He seemed to struggle for a moment before relenting and addressing Nick. “We’ve heard reports that you were there,” he said. “I have to say, it’s astounding that a prototype has lasted this long without upkeep.”

Nick scoffed quietly. “There’s been upkeep. You people aren’t the only ones with enough brain cells to figure out machinery.”

“Even so,” Virgil said, “I’ve heard of this particular run of experiments; they were before my time, of course, but there are still files. Which memories ended up taking?”

Deacon exchanged a quick look with Carly as Nick’s expression hardened -- or at least, he was pretty sure there was a look, if her helmet tipping toward him counted. It was tempting to cut in, but he figured it wouldn’t do much good. Regardless, Nick had managed living somewhere as paranoid as Diamond City. He’d certainly heard his fair share of dumb questions.

“An old cop,” Nick said eventually, “who gets the job done. Now,” he cut off whatever Virgil was about to say next, his hand tapping against his pistol, “you’ve had your questions. I get one, too. If you people know exactly where I am, why haven’t I been...reclaimed, or whatever the hell it is you do?”

Virgil hesitated before shaking his head once. “I wouldn’t know. It wasn’t my department, you would need to ask the SRB.”

Nick laughed shortly. “Sure,” he muttered, “I’ll do that.”

They split from Virgil at the end of the canyon, just as he’d said. He offered a gruff, “Don’t get killed,” before turning and starting back to his cave.

Carly tried to scratch at her head, remembered the suit a second later, and let the arm fall with a sigh. “We’re almost to the center anyway, so I figure, just a straight shot northeast will be the best bet. Nothing that’s really any faster.”

“Except maybe a Vertibird,” Deacon said. “You think the fearless Brotherhood would give us a lift out if we asked nicely? At least you look the part.”

Nick snorted. “Yeah, and I’m sure they’d love to see me.”

“Oh yeah.” Deacon shoved his shoulder with a grin. “Sentient gen-two, living and -- well I wouldn’t say breathing, but I’m sure you’d be best pals.”

“Sure they would.” Carly started walking, adjusting the strap of her bag that had slipped into a joint of the armor. “Let me just give that blimp a ring. Who the hell runs that thing, anyway?”

“Haven’t met the guy myself,” Deacon told her. He already had to start ignoring the way his skin was prickling. Damn, he hated radiation. “Intel from the Capital says it’s an Elder...Matthew? Marcus? I forget, but he hasn’t been in power very long. Took over after the two Lyons died, and let me tell ya, losing them was a blow.”

“Losing Brotherhood leaders?” Carly asked. “I’d think that would be preferable; you don’t exactly seem to be on great terms.”

Deacon shook his head. “Not anymore. You could never exactly call us allies, but the Lyons were good people. They were less about the outright bigotry and more about helping DC start to heal. We’ve got a couple of sympathizers down there, a few agents who have made the trip, and from what their reports are saying, the new guy’s turned it from a helping hand to an occupying force. More martial law than anything else.”

“Not much different from how it was before the bombs, then,” Carly said, and Nick chuckled. “So what the hell are they doing here?”

“Besides terrorizing farms and threatening Goodneighbor every few seconds?” Nick asked. “My guess is the same thing you’re doing: trying to find the Institute. Whole place goes against everything they stand for, the epitome of technology run amok.”

They all paused when a low growl drifted through the wind, staring in every direction to try and find the source. Nothing jumped out of the green haze, and after a few moments of silence, they moved on again. There was a little less caution now than there probably should be, but the desire to get out of the Sea was stronger than the wariness of what might hear them.

“How’d they even find out about it in the first place?” Carly asked. “Institute seems pretty localized, I doubt they’re going to the trouble of grabbing people that far south.”

Deacon gave a short hum. “That’s kind of...both of our faults. I read the report from something like ten years back; some escapee managed to get all the way to DC on his own, hid in plain sight just like we would’ve had him do anyway. Institute sent an agent after him, so did we, some Vault dweller got involved, and it got...messy.”

“Some synth important enough to follow that far?” Nick raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Who the hell is that crucial to bring back?”

The report had been old, Watts not entirely clear on most details -- and hell, after all she’d dealt with down there, it wasn’t surprising -- but even back then, back when they were still called androids most of the time, it had been pretty clear who she had been looking for. “We’re pretty sure he was an early Courser.”

Nick’s eyes widened, and Carly nearly stumbled over a chunk of broken cement.

“A _Courser_?” she repeated. There was something in her voice, something he couldn’t recognize through the helmet, but it was pretty clear that the topic wasn’t one she was fond of bringing up. “I didn’t -- they can escape?”

Deacon shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “Apparently.”

“I thought they were....” She shook her head quickly. “I thought they were like, programmed differently, less...aware.”

“I dunno, boss. At this point, you probably know more about them than the rest of us combined.”

Carly was quiet after that, and Deacon made a mental note to avoid bringing up Coursers as a whole. Not like he could blame her -- it was pretty obvious that she had left out some details when she told them about the fight, and considering the state she had come back in, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know all of it anyway.

It didn’t take them long to run into an obstacle in the form of a pack of ghouls, hanging around a large collection of murky water. The ghouls were upwind from them, so they hadn’t been spooked out of their stupor yet, but even if they did manage to sneak past, they’d be smelled right away.

Carly swore under her breath. “I’m seeing seven. At least a few Reavers. Not something we’d outrun.”

“Sneak around to the west, they smell you,” Nick said. “Go around to the east, add a lot of distance to the trip.” He paused, squinting through the haze, and then glanced over at Deacon. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

Deacon grinned. “I mean, I’d hate to use you as bait.”

“Yeah,” Nick snorted, “I’m sure.” He turned to Carly, tying his coat a little more securely around him. “They won’t smell me -- nothing to smell. Give me a minute to get around to the other side. I take the first shot, one of you take the next when they’re focused on me, we meet in the middle.”

Carly nodded, swinging the rifle off of her shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. Watch your back.”

“Always do,” Nick said, and started down the slope, moving slow enough to avoid knocking any gravel loose.

Carly shifted her gun like she was going to look through the scope, remembered the helmet, and lowered it again.

“You two work things out, then?” she asked. Deacon rolled his eyes.

“Never a problem,” he said.

“Sure.” Carly leaned over, keeping Nick in view; he was using rusted pieces of metal as cover as he snuck around the edge of the pond. Deacon did the same, grip tight on his rifle when one of the ghouls stirred enough to look around. It settled again after a moment, and he forced his hands to relax. “It’s like I told you in the beginning,” Carly added, “Nick’s one of the good ones.”

Deacon made himself look down and check the ammo in his gun, careful to keep his expression blank. “Seems like.”

The plan worked much better this time around with an extra gun. Carly couldn’t exactly get headshots with the helmet in the way of the scope, but with bullets that large, practically any hit wasn’t one they were getting up from.

They did meet in the middle, and Carly took care of one ghoul who was still trying to crawl after them even with most of one leg missing. The knife she’d pulled from her bag for the job wasn’t one he’d seen before, but she stowed it away again quickly and Deacon didn’t bother asking.

He took another dose of Rad-X, Nick put a new fusion cell in his gun, and they moved on.

The radiation set in like it had the last time, but Deacon was less determined to be pissed off at everything. He accepted the bottle of water Nick pushed on him and successfully ignored the strange aftertaste. It happened during radstorms, too, radiation lingering in the air even after the lightning had vanished.

Even with the unfamiliar terrain, it seemed to go faster on the way back. The creaking of the power armor was no quieter, the near-constant rumbling clouds overhead no less ominous, but just the fact that they were going back to Boston with a possible way into the Institute made it seem a little less awful.

A little.

Deacon was the first to feel the ground shift marginally under his feet. He stopped, listening, trying to pick up on any other movement, and the others stopped a second later and looked back.

“Something up?” Nick asked, and Deacon frowned.

“Not sure. Kinda felt like --”

This time, he saw a few rocks move and the top layer of dirt ripple. Something was burrowing.

Mole rats were possible. They would have been preferable, considering the alternative, but the movement was too big, and unless the wastes had spawned some new horror recently, that only left the one option.

“Scorpion,” he hissed.

“ _Shit_.” Carly whipped her rifle around, turning in a slow circle. “Just the one?”

Deacon almost laughed. “Hell if I know, don’t get X-Ray vision until my next upgrade.”

She didn’t respond to that, but gave a sharp jerk when some of the rocks shifted under one of her boots. They could track the movement then, watched as it moved to the north and vanished under a small cluster of rocks.

It took about a minute before anyone moved. Nick looked around warily, laser rifle shifting in his grip. “What, it’s not gonna mess with us?”

“Maybe it’s on a diet,” Deacon suggested, and he could sense Carly’s eye-roll even if he couldn’t see it.

“Either way,” she muttered, “let’s get out of here before it changes its mind. Gift horses and all that.”

They turned a bit further east to avoid the rocks. Deacon caught Nick’s eye, mouthing _Horses?_ and received a quick shrug that told him Nick knew exactly what it meant, but wasn’t going to explain it.

It took a few minutes of repose for Deacon to let the grip on his rifle relax. Nothing but the wind kicking up flurries of dust, the creak of  power armor, and the puzzle-mud cracking under their feet.

“Didn’t even know they could burrow,” Carly said after a while. “Never saw it until I came through here last time -- damn thing popped up out of the ground like, two feet in front of me. Hancock says they probably heard the scream in Cambridge.”

Nick laughed, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’m too surprised. Nearly take your head off?”

Carly shifted her rifle enough so she could hold a thumb and forefinger some distance apart -- the effect was somewhat lost in the huge metal glove. “ _This_ close, I swear. You know, I never thought I’d miss regular scorpions. I hated them even before they were six feet long.”

“Could be worse,” Deacon said. “I’ve heard they’re as big as cars out west.”

Carly made a short noise of disgust, shaking her head. “Ugh, don’t say that, the mosquitoes are bad enough.”

“Gotta love the apocalypse, huh?” Nick said. “Just never ending --”

He was cut off by the ground cracking open just to the right of Carly. She didn’t scream this time, but the yelp was a little undignified, even through the helmet of the power armor. She stumbled back from the scorpion’s swinging tail, Nick swore loudly and Deacon backpedaled, his first shot going wild as he tried to get out of range.

Apparently, it had decided to mess with them. It just wanted to bide some time first.

Nick pulled his pistol out, let his rifle fall to the ground. It was tough for bullets to do much damage against the hard, armored carapaces, but lasers didn’t stand any chance at all. Two rifles and a pistol should be able to take it down with some work -- if the damn thing would slow down long enough to hit.

It was, luckily, mainly focused on Carly. She tried to angle her gun down far enough to shoot the face, but the armor was making it difficult. Deacon and Nick went to either side; the only real weak spots were the face and the underbelly, but any damage was useful. Probably.

Hopefully.

“Nasty little _shit_ ,” Carly snappped. She stumbled over a dip in the ground, one hand hitting the dirt to keep herself from falling completely, and Deacon could actually hear the stinger hit her armor.

She scrambled to the side as much as she could before the scorpion’s claws could try to do what its stinger couldn’t. Deacon had to back up himself when it got a little too close to him for comfort -- he wasn’t sure the reinforcement under his own outfit would be quite as lucky as a few inches of steel. He fumbled for the ammo in one pocket when his rifle gave a telltale _click_ and tried to reload without taking his eyes off that whipping tail.

He was most concerned about the tail. Claws that size could do some serious damage, but those were regular injuries. Radscorpion venom set in quickly; even if it wasn’t a lethal amount by itself, being that weakened in the wastes was very likely to get someone killed anyway.

When Carly got herself righted and started aiming again, the scorpion paused, something on it clicking rapidly. Suddenly it was digging, stirring up the ground that seemed so solid from the surface, and vanished almost instantly.

Deacon’s breathing suddenly seemed very loud. All three of them turned slowly and moved closer together, scanning the ground warily. Nick’s eyes were narrowed, and his hat had fallen off at some point. There were a few visible dings in Carly’s armor that hadn’t been there before.

It wasn’t a deathclaw, at least.

He’d barely finished the thought when he was yanked back, making Deacon choke on what had started as a shout. Dirt hit his face a second later, making him stumble back another few steps, and he realized that Nick had pulled him away from the spot that the scorpion decided to pop up from just before it happened.

He had no idea how that worked, whether Nick had heard it somehow, or _did_ secretly have X-Ray vision that he hadn’t mentioned, but it wasn’t something to think much about right now.

Deacon could also tell that there’d be a bruise on his arm where Nick had grabbed him, and _damn,_ he forgot how strong that guy was sometimes.

Carly’s gun was still ridiculously loud, especially so close. It fired much slower than his own, and Deacon wasn’t sure how many bullets she had left, but they certainly hadn’t started out with many. That caliber was expensive and heavy, just like the gun itself, but it was definitely useful when a bullet the size of a guy’s hand hit the scorpion right below where the shell met its face.

Nick and Deacon both had to move quickly, jumping back out of range every time the scorpion decided to lash out at them, but most of its focus was on Carly, and she had planted herself stubbornly in one place.

It was clicking angrily, claws snapping at the metal that wouldn’t give and tail stabbing relentlessly without finding a weak spot. After a minute Carly made a frustrated noise and let her gun fall to hang by the strap around her arm.

Maybe it was out of ammo, or maybe she just got sick of shooting it.

When she grabbed the scorpion’s tail the next time it struck, Deacon guessed it was the latter.

He and Nick stopped to watch incredulously as she yanked it closer, ignoring the claws and turning enough so she could bring her boot down on its face.

It took a few strong stomps for the scorpion to stop struggling, and there definitely wasn’t a face left to speak of. Carly stood still for a few seconds before dropping the tail and scraping her boot against a nearby rock to get a small chunk of shell off.

“Fucking _hate_ those things,” she grumbled.

Deacon gave a low whistle, carefully stepping around the now-limp body to stand beside her. “I _guess_. Next time, you might wanna lead with that, boss.”

She snorted, slinging her rifle back across her shoulder. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

They spent a moment regrouping; Nick got his rifle from where it had fallen and Deacon found the hat on the ground, dusting it off absently before reaching up enough to push it back on Nick’s head as crookedly as he could.

“Never thought I’d say it,” Deacon noted as Nick pulled his hat straight again, “but thank God for power armor.”

Carly stared down at the mess of crushed shell and the dark ooze leaking out of it before turning pointedly away. “Guess it’s good for something. Let’s get out of here before more of them show up.”

They hadn’t gone far at all into the Sea, Deacon realized as he tossed back his third dose of RadX. They had traveled much further in a day before than they were managing now; the problem was more that the whole place was riddled with ravines, rock slides, and all sorts of things that were very adept at killing people. If they could walk directly through it would probably only take a couple of hours. As it was, they noticed the air starting to clear after four.

Carly took her helmet off a mile or so past what seemed like the edge of the blast radius. Her hair was an impressive mess. She tried futilely to make it lie flat with the palm of the metal glove, wincing when a few strands got stuck in the joints.

“This thing is staying in the city,” she grumbled, hanging the helmet on its hook. “No way I’m walking all the way back to Sanctuary with it right now.”

“Well it’s not fittin’ in my office,” Nick said. “I can barely squeeze the boxes in there as it is.”

“Leave it up on the roof,” Deacon suggested. “Scare the shit out of people.”

Carly chuckled wryly. “As tempting as that is, Piper’s got a spare corner she’s offered before. Seems a little less likely to get me 86’d from town.”

“Ahh, I gotcha.” Deacon’s knowing look fell quickly when he had to stamp down a wave of nausea -- damn, he hated radiation -- but he got it back a second later. “Making sure to have an excuse to go back to the city?”

“Hey, I need ammo, too,” she said defensively, and then scoffed when he just raised an eyebrow. “Shut up.”

Clouds rolled in from the east. It was hardly past noon, but there was an abrupt shift in lighting when the sun was obscured. Storms from the coast were a lot less likely to shift into ones with green lightning and crackling radiation, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant to get rained on, and with the chill still lingering in the air, it could very well turn into sleet without warning.

So, no matter what, it was going to be  a pretty miserable time if the clouds broke.

Deacon kept himself from scratching at the exposed parts of his skin, the places even less protected from the radiation. The Rad-X had definitely done its job -- he would likely be puking up at least one organ otherwise -- but it wasn’t infallible. Radiation was a tenacious bastard.

Not that he’d say as much out loud, of course. The priority was getting out of the wastes, back to what passed as civilization, and then he could take the time to flush the rads out. A little discomfort had never stopped him before.

Not to say he hadn’t complained about much more minor inconveniences, but they hadn’t stopped him, either.

They took a break underneath a cracking overpass. Carly shed the armor, flicking through something on her Pip-Boy’s screen before sighing.

“Well,” she muttered, “I know where we would’ve been two hundred years ago. Damn thing isn’t exactly up to date.”

Deacon went to look over her shoulder, which wasn’t a difficult feat once she lost the height advantage the armor gave her. The screen was garishly green, and the map on it was only vaguely familiar because he had seen a few old pre-war ones that had been preserved over the years. Tourist brochures, mostly, and none of them particularly useful for anyone now.

“This is where we are?” he asked, reaching over to point at the small green triangle in the center. Carly nodded, scrolling out a little further.

“I’ve got the city marked,” she said. “A couple of places around HQ, some on the northern edge by Cambridge. We didn’t think to do much on the way down here the first time, though, and hell if I recognize any of this now.”

“So we know where we’re going,” Nick noted, “just not where we are.”

She mulled that over and then shot Nick an amused look. “Well when you say it like that, it sounds all deep and philosophical.”

“Seems to be a habit of his,” Deacon agreed, stepping away and stretching his arms over his head. “Once we get to the southern edge of Boston, I’ll know things better. Been south plenty, just never this far west.”

 _For very good reason,_ his mind added helpfully. _This place sucks._

Carly glanced over at Nick again and he shrugged.

“Same boat, I’m afraid. Quincy and University Point, those areas I know. Or,” he amended, “I used to. Haven’t been there since both of them fell into bad hands. No reason to cross the marshes, no one lives out here but ghouls and mutants.”

“Well,” Carly said, rolling her shoulders wearily, “suppose we’ll just head in the right direction and hope for the best.”

“Solid plan.” Deacon rummaged through his bag, adding a hurried, “Before you get back in the tin can --” He found the rolled up piece of jerky stuffed under a small bag of caps and tossed the meat at her. “Eat that before even the mole rats hear your stomach growling.”

She pulled a face at him, nose scrunching and her brow furrowed, before pulling the paper off the meat as she turned to do a walk-around inspection of the suit.

Deacon tried to rearrange the mess in his bag for a few moments before realizing Nick was watching him with folded arms. When Deacon raised a questioning eyebrow, he just gave a short nod.

“You too.”

It took Deacon a second to realize what Nick was talking about. He glanced over at Carly, who was busy trying to pull off a somewhat smaller chunk of the meat, and then shook his head with the start of a grin.

“The concern is flattering,” Deacon said, “but personally, I’d prefer whatever I ate to stay down. That’s a little unlikely right now.”

Nick sighed. “Then that seems like a very valid reason to get the drip started.”

“And what, just hold it up for the next couple hours?” Deacon shook his head. “I’ll do it when we stop for the night. I’m fine, you worry too much.”

He didn’t seem about to argue the topic, at least, but Nick did pinch the bridge of his nose with another quick sigh. “You make it increasingly hard not to.”

The hiss of the power armor opening got Deacon moving after an unintended pause, and he firmly informed the paranoid part of his mind that it was not allowed to overthink that sentence.

Not that there was anything to overthink, of course.

The clouds broke open a few minutes after they left the shelter of the overpass.

Deacon tugged his knit hat a little further over his ears. It was still rain, not frozen yet, but it _was_ cold. He was grateful for the extra sweater now, and made a mental note to thank Preston the next time they passed through Sanctuary.

“Well…” Deacon shifted his rifle to keep it as dry as he could and wiped the moisture off of his glasses. “This is wonderful.”

“At least it waited until we were out of the Sea,” Nick said. Deacon saw him pull his coat a little further up so the collar covered more of his neck, and wondered if rain was an issue for the exposed machinery. “Slightly less awful than it could’ve been.”

“I think ‘slightly’ is the key word there. I’m still cold. Say, boss, if you rust into place, can I have that rifle?”

Carly turned enough to shoot him a weary look. “Just because you asked, I’ll make sure Glory gets it.”

Deacon put a dramatic hand to his heart. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Y’know, I think I would.” She shook her head sharply. It was probably the only real way to get water off of her face, since the metal on each hand made things a bit difficult. “I have no idea how well this thing holds up in the rain, though, especially with how little upkeep it’s had. If we find some shelter, we’ll wait the weather out.”

Even out of the Sea, the terrain wasn’t easy to navigate. There were crumbled bridges to get around, cliffs that had probably once been hills, and they had to turn sharply to avoid a camp of what looked like Gunners right outside a cave. It wasn’t like Gunners _always_ shot first and asked questions later, but the alternative was usually some kind of payment, and Deacon wasn’t sure their luck from the last encounter would hold up.

It was Nick who spotted the house from the crest of a hill. It was hard to make out much detail through the dim light and scattered trees, but the roof looked more or less intact.

Providing it wasn’t already shelter for a deathclaw or something, it seemed as good a stop as any.

There was next to no stealth going down the hill anyway. The power armor already creaked with every step, and its weight dislodged a few rocks and sent dirt sliding down into trees. Deacon was worried it would attract some animal or ghoul. He didn’t expect to hear a shotgun being cocked when the neared the battered fence.

“One step closer and I will shoot,” a man’s voice called. Deacon spotted the barrel of his gun propped up on a pile of wood. He had to be aiming somehow, but the angle didn’t leave any of his face exposed. “I’ve done it plenty of times before, don’t try me.”

Carly looked over at Deacon with an expression that mirrored his own confusion. Who the hell would bother living out here?

“Not trying anything,” she said after a moment, raising her hands to shoulder height. “We were just trying to get out of the rain, didn’t realize anyone lived here.”

There was an uneasy silence. A sharp elbow to the ribs made Deacon flinch, and he shot Nick an indignant look before realizing that he still had a hand on his rifle. He huffed out a sigh, both hands spreading to either side, and after a few seconds the man with the shotgun straightened.

“What, just…” His eyes went from Carly to Nick and back, narrowing even more. “Just passing through? We already told your man last week, you’ll get the crops when we harvest.”

Carly frowned. It took a few seconds for her to glance down at the armor, and then she let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m not Brotherhood,” she said, hands falling again. Deacon followed her lead and folded his own to keep them from drifting back to the gun. “Just found this hunk of rust in Concord. I’m actually --” The next words seemed hard to get out, but Carly attempted a grin. “General Downing. I’m with the Minutemen.”

The man still looked skeptical, even a little pissed off, but his shotgun lowered a few inches. “Minutemen? They fell apart months ago, we heard what happened in Quincy.”

Everyone had heard what happened in Quincy by now. News didn’t travel very fast at first, but once it got as far as Diamond City and was deemed important enough to hand off to their radio host, it could be all across the area within a day or two. Something as big as the last real battalion of the Minutemen turning on each other, that was definitely news even the farmers in the middle of nowhere would have heard.

Carly nodded, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Yeah, it happened. But we’re rebuilding. Doing it right this time.” When the man’s stony expression didn’t shift, she glanced over at the small house. “Look, we are really just passing through. Don’t need any supplies or anything, and we’ll move on if you want, but all I’m looking for is a roof for an hour or so. I’ll leave the suit on the porch.”

“What’s with the synth?” the man asked. Deacon felt his hands tighten on his arms, but he kept his face blank and Nick just smiled.

“Nick Valentine,” he said. “I’m a detective in Diamond City.”

The man scoffed lightly. His gun did lower some more, so they were at least getting somewhere, but the slight contempt with which he looked Nick over was something Deacon had seen plenty of times. After a moment and a roll of thunder overhead, he nodded back at the house.

“Suit stays on the porch,” he told Carly. “Guns stay with it.”

He kept hold of his own shotgun as Carly stepped out of the armor. There was no sudden panic over the Courser uniform, so Deacon guessed the stories hadn’t made it quite this far.

The man introduced himself as Hank, waiting until their various guns had been set on the porch bench before he led them inside. Being unarmed was definitely not something Deacon was fond of, but he took a small amount of comfort from knowing Carly still had the knife in her bag. Nick, he didn’t necessarily need a gun if things suddenly went bad.

His paranoia lessened very slightly when he spotted two kids peeking out from around the doorway of the second room. They looked young, though Deacon had never been great at telling kids’ ages. Not that he would put it past Hank to start shooting if he thought he needed to protect them, but a lot of people made an effort to avoid murdering strangers in front of children.

“Got some visitors for a bit,” Hank told them. He held onto his shotgun, but propped it up on one shoulder. “Gonna be on your best behavior, right?”

The boy squinted at them suspiciously. He was the first to come out, arms folded as he stopped in front of Nick.

“Why’s your hand all weird?” he asked, and Deacon saw Hank stiffen.

Nick just chuckled, holding the metal hand out for the boy to see. “Got in a fight with a big metal fan,” he said. “The fan won that round.”

“Yeah, but why’s it all shiny?”

“He’s a robot, Trevor, _obviously_ ,” the girl said. She was standing by Hank, and even without the same wary expression he had, Deacon could definitely see a resemblance. “Y’know, like that trader guy was talkin’ about.”

Trevor’s eyes widened. He stared a few seconds longer, taking in the glowing eyes and torn skin, and then grinned. “That’s _so cool!_ ”

Nick’s expression softened. He knelt down to eye level, ignoring the way Hank shifted the shotgun in his hands. “It has its perks. You know much about machines?”

“Dad’s showing me how to work with the generator,” Trevor said. “Dunno about robots, though.” He looked over at Carly suddenly. “You a robot, too? You were all metal before.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Nah, that’s just a suit. I’m skin and bone like you.”

“Alright,” Hank said, stepping forward to put a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “You two got chores, remember, rain or not.”

The boy groaned, but he trooped back into the other room, giving a squawk of protest when his sister shoved him forward as she followed. Nick stood again, and Hank shot him a look before nodding at Carly.

“You said you were Minutemen?” She nodded, and Hank finally set his gun down to lean against the wall. “Been a long time since I heard of any of them, especially this far out of the city. What’s the Minutemen doin’ with…” His eyes flicked over to Nick and he seemed to think better of that phrasing, clearing his throat. “What’s your business out here?”

“Just some recon,” Deacon said before Carly could hesitate. “Looking to expand, you know, set up new farms. There’s never much word from this area, so figured we’d take a look for ourselves.”

Hank scoffed. “Well, you’re not gonna find many people crazy enough to live out here. Those Gunners at the Vault leave us alone, but no one taught super mutants to live and let live.”

Deacon nodded, jabbing his thumb back toward the porch. “Hence the extra protection. Hasn’t exactly been a warm welcome up until now.”

“You had Brotherhood come through here, though,” Carly said, and Hank nodded. “What’d they want?”

“About what you’d expect; looking for us to support the cause. Decided to tack on at the end that support included a “donation” of crops.” Hank sighed, glancing back at the door to the other room, and his voice lowered. “It’s just me and my kids out here, it’s not like I could tell ‘em to shove it. You don’t say no to a guy with a minigun and a steel coat. Barely even heard of those assholes before, and now they’re acting like they own the place.”

Carly’s jaw clenched. There was something in her eyes that gave Deacon the impression she was ready to march out and take on the entire airship by herself. It seemed best to head that off.

“Well,” he cut into the silence, clapping his hands together, “I’ve been overdue to get these damn rads out for a while now. Mind giving me a hand, _General_?”

She blinked hard, seemingly thrown off by the title, and then nodded. “Right, sure. We’ve got our own,” she added, looking back at Hank as she shrugged her bag off. “You mind?” He waved dismissively and Carly knelt to rummage for the RadAway, cursing quietly at the mess.

He could have set up the IV himself, and they both knew it, but it did give him a chance to watch Hank. There was still wariness -- even with the gun on the floor, he wouldn’t step too far from it. The looks he kept shooting at Nick said plenty, but there wasn’t any open hostility, so it could have been worse.

Not that it made Deacon like the guy any more, but the lack of sneering comments was a step up from a lot of people in the city.

The rain only got heavier as the afternoon wore on. There wasn’t much in the way of small talk; they sorted through supplies, ate something resembling a late lunch, and swapped out the bag of RadAway when it ran empty.

After a few hours, Trevor wandered back. He was much less nervous than before and plopped down next to Nick, watching the short process of tightening the joints on his metal hand.

“Why’s one hand got stuff on it still?”

Nick shrugged. “Just hasn’t been damaged. They both used to be like that.”’

“What if you pet a cat, is it still fuzzy?”

“With this one,” he held up the left hand, the fingers waving briefly, “sort of.”

“You didn’t eat any food, do you drink oil or somethin’?”

“Nah,” Nick chuckled, “not last I checked.”

Trevor squinted at him, lips pursed. “So why you got those holes in your face?”

“Well, things scrape me up just like they do you.” He tapped one finger against the exposed metal in his jaw. “My skin just doesn’t grow back like yours.”

Deacon watched the conversation continue -- though it seemed more like an interrogation than anything else -- as he absently rolled the thin IV line between his fingers. Nick had an answer to every one of the questions the kid fired out, and it was clear that he had all the patience in the world for them when they were asked out of legitimate curiosity, not just to find out how many ways he was different from ‘normal’ humans.

Apparently he was also just really good with kids.

It took feeling the IV line shift to realize that Carly had sat down next to him, and Deacon immediately wiped his expression clear of whatever it had been doing without his permission. He squinted down at the needle in his arm, only looking up at Carly after a few seconds when she still hadn’t turned away.

“What?” he asked, and she scoffed quietly, leaning back with a grin.

“Oh, nothing, I’m sure.”

When the Pip-Boy said it was nearly sunset and the weather had decided to alternate between rain and hail, Hank grudgingly suggested they sleep in the living room and head out in the morning.

Staying in the house of some stranger who was already wary of all of them wasn’t Deacon’s ideal night. Still, he would take that over trying to navigate the swamps, in the dark, in the middle of a storm.

It was doubtful Hank slept much at all that night. Nick, as usual, sat up on watch, and Deacon managed a few hours at a time, waking to sharper cracks of thunder once or twice.

The weather cleared to a thin drizzle by the time they left the next morning. Trevor walked with them to the edge of the property, giving convoluted directions while taking detours to splash through every puddle they passed. He waved for a few seconds when they got to the fence, then turned to jog back to the house.

Carly hesitated at the border, her brow furrowed as she considered the small farm. She shook her head once when they started off down the road again.

“Gonna have to figure out what to do about those Brotherhood patrols,” she muttered. “Being racist asses is bad enough, but if they’re actively harassing people now…”

“I’m with you there, boss,” Deacon said, “but one battle at a time, right? Let’s get this teleporter up and running first.”

She let out a frustrated breath, but nodded. “I’ll tell Preston about it when I see him next, maybe he can start talking to someone.

Deacon snorted. “Good luck with that. Got skulls thicker than their helmets, most of ‘em.”

They took efforts to avoid the more marshy areas, skirting around the mirelurk nests when they saw them in advance and steering clear of an odd little set-up on a pond that looked like it held super mutants. The whole area was full of things to avoid. Luckily, the softer ground muffled the sound of the power armor’s steps a little. It made them more squelching than anything else, which fit in with the surrounding noise.

They had to take out one smaller mirelurk that spotted them, but its shell wasn’t fully hardened yet and it went down easily. Deacon recognized a bridge they came to a couple of hours in, and the path to Boston was much more confident after that.

Maybe it was the fact that no one wanted to mess with someone in power armor, or maybe they just got really lucky, but their time in the city went almost entirely unchallenged. It was nearing sunset when they got to Diamond City, and Carly paused long enough in the entrance to lean into the guard booth.

“We’re coming back out in a few,” she told Danny, and he raised a surprised eyebrow that she ignored. “Just keep the gate open for a bit, huh?”

Danny looked from her to Nick and shot a curious frown at Deacon before nodding with a sigh.

“Make it quick,” he said. “Supposed to shut right at sunset, but I’d rather not have to just open it up again.”

“Appreciate it,” Carly shot over her shoulder as she turned. The sound of the metal on concrete echoed a lot more in the confined space of the stairs, and Deacon was increasingly glad they were leaving the suit behind.

The shops were all either closed or in the process of packing up for the evening. Percy was already floating in his usual spot, cheerfully advertising the 24 hour service. That was half the reason Deacon liked coming into the city after dark; Danny might find him familiar, but there were plenty of people he had to open the gate for at night, and it was much easier dealing with Percy than Myrna when he needed basic supplies.

Carly had the foresight to knock before she ducked into Piper’s office, and Deacon hopped up onto the railing on the ramp to wait for her. He was a little surprised when Nick stopped next to him, propping one foot up and pulling his cigarettes from his pocket.

“Not gonna drop by the office?” Deacon asked, and Nick shrugged.

“Ellie closes earlier than I do,” he said, “she’s probably locked up already. If she needed me she would’ve let the guards know, and it’s not like we’re here long.”

Deacon nodded, letting himself grin when the pack of cigarettes was held out to him. He knew his own stash was running low, and it was tempting to grab some from Percy, but he also knew Tom would have extras at HQ for far cheaper.

And hell, he was never one to turn down a free smoke.

He fished his lighter out of his pocket, sheltering the flame with one hand when the breeze picked up and hooking his feet on the bottom of the railing so he could lean back further.

There was an odd sense of deja vu, sitting on the ramp with Diamond City’s most effective detective, waiting for Carly to finish up whatever conversation she’d gotten into with Piper.

This time around, though, he was a lot less paranoid that they were about to walk out of the city with someone who could be an Institute plant.

Deacon definitely preferred it this way.

“I swear,” he muttered after a few minutes, “they’re gonna start getting into all these confessions of feelings and we’ll be here all night.”

Nick shook his head. “Nah, not this soon.”

“Think so?” Deacon glanced over at the paper’s office. “Because I’m definitely seeing something there.”

“Oh, it’s definitely there,” Nick agreed. “Has been since I first met Carly, and Piper’s all for it, but…” He shrugged, glancing down at the cigarette filter as it burned out, squashing the last ember against the railing before he pocketed it. “She isn’t the one who just lost her husband.”

Deacon gave a short hum. It wasn’t something he necessarily forgot, but Carly avoided bringing the topic up so diligently that she made it seem like a non-factor.

Everybody was a liar about something.

“They’ll figure it out,” Nick continued after a moment. He folded his arms, eyes on a point just above the buildings. “Just one of those times where it’s a bit...complicated.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

That got a light scoff. “Well, personally, not so much. I mean…” He lifted the metal hand briefly, as if that were explanation enough. “But before...Nick had a fiancee.” His smile was a little grim. “Those memories are still pretty clear.”

Deacon was spared having to think of a response to that when the door of the Occurrence swung open and Carly strode out, free of the power armor and looking distinctly more cheerful. It seemed pretty likely that being out of the power armor wasn’t the only factor.

“Right,” she said, glancing between them as Deacon hopped off the railing and Nick straightened. “Probably kind of stupid to cross the city this late, but I figure it’s less stupid than crossing the Glowing Sea, so we’ll manage. Stay at HQ tonight, get started on this thing in earnest tomorrow morning.”

“Decent plan,” Deacon said. He pulled his hat a little further around his ears and made a mental note to shave once they got to the church, before the hair he could start to feel growing got long enough to be visible. “I mean, as much as traveling through Boston after dark can ever be.”

True to his word, Danny had kept the gate open, and they could hear it grinding shut as they turned east. Carly looked even more intimidating when night really fell; the black of the Courser uniform seemed designed to blend into the shadows, and the fact that the rest of her was so dark anyway made anything but the glint of her rifle tough to pick out when she got too far ahead.

Deacon focused on keeping track of her and listening for any signs of ghouls or super mutants that might get a little bolder in the dark.

He did not think about what Nick had said, about the fiancee or the apparent determination that the pre-war Nick was a completely separate entity from the present one.

Wasn’t relevant to what they were doing, nothing useful about that information anyway.

He had a job to do.

They ran into a few ferals outside of the Commons. Carly didn’t bother with her guns, instead tugging her knife from her boot and dispatching any that got close enough with a blade in their skull. Deacon used his pistol for the last two, and they were more cautious for the next few minutes in case the gunshots had alerted anything nearby.

The grumbling curious noise from a super mutant in one alley got them jogging for a block, just in case, and either nothing had heard them in the first place, or just felt like it was too much trouble to bother pursuing. Either way, Deacon was grateful he had made the trip so often, because ducking down side streets and into alleys was a very quick way to get lost in the ruins.

The lantern by the door was burning when they finally reached the church. Sometimes Dez had it lit when they had been keeping an eye on someone who might be trying to find them. Sometimes Deacon was pretty sure she just did it to keep up the image. It was a welcome sight regardless, though he still made them do a lap around the block to make sure they didn’t have any tail before going inside.

It took a minute to get the main door open, and it always sounded far too loud in the silence of the catacombs. Carly flipped the switch to slide it closed again, and the solid sound of the stone settling back into place was an odd comfort.

That was also the cue for the exhaustion from the past few days to hit all at once.

Dez was standing by the stairway when they got inside, trying to keep the relief on her face from being too obvious. She looked a little startled when she took in Carly’s outfit, but pushed that aside quickly.

“Think you’ve set a record,” she said. The woman had never been one for basic greetings. “I don’t know a single person who’s been into the Sea and come back, let alone done it twice.”

Carly grinned, running a hand back through her hair wearily. “Ah, what’s a giant radioactive hellhole? It was fun. We had a great time, took some pictures, saw the wildlife, mingled with the locals. I’d recommend it for a vacation..”

Deacon felt a swell of pride and Dez rolled her eyes. “Did you get it, then?” Dez asked, sticking close as they made their way further into the room. “Virgil figured out the code?”

“Yeah, we…” Carly paused, then let out a slow breath. “We got it, and I swear you’ll be the first to hear about the whole thing, but right now, I could really use somewhere to sleep.”

Dez hesitated, glanced between Deacon and Nick, and then gave a curt nod. “We have a few open spots, take whichever you want. I’ll get your report in the morning.” She turned toward her desk, clapping a hand to Carly’s shoulder as she passed. “It’s good to have you back, agent.”

Carly nodded, making her way over to the nearest mattress without another word and letting her stuff fall to the floor beside it. Deacon made himself wait for a few seconds to make sure Dez wasn’t about to start asking him questions anyway. When it became obvious she was focused on the papers in front of her, he shot Nick a look and then a short nod before finding a mattress of his own.

It would be easier than usual to sleep, at least. They’d have a lot of work to do come morning, trying to figure out just how they would go about building a teleporter, but for the moment, he could sleep without soaking up rads or being worried about some paranoid farmer shooting him in the middle of the night.

They’d fill Dez in on everything in the morning -- probably Tom, too, since he would be the one most likely to figure out the whole building process.

Deacon settled himself onto what passed for a bed, spotting Nick a few yards away pulling a chair over to their weapons workbench and starting to disassemble his pistol. The movements were practiced, familiar, and strangely calming. Deacon let himself watch for a few moments before he pulled off his glasses, setting them carefully next to the mattress, and rolling to face the wall.

He had been right about one thing, anyway: they did come back with one hell of a story to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I made an effort to do NaNoWriMo this year -- got a start on a novel and then ended up working on this instead. Part of the reason it turned out so long. My sister was a real trooper and did a ton of little edits and looked over the whole thing for me. She's great like that.
> 
> Reminder that you can see me yelling about things (and get the occasional updates on story progress) at my [Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com). Super fun seeing you guys over there!
> 
> I've also set up a playlist over [here](http://bit.ly/2qAlusg%22) that has all of the songs I've used for chapter titles. It'll be updated as I go, in case anyone was interested but didn't want to go through the process of looking up everything.
> 
> You're all wonderful Thanks for sticking with me!


	16. can we skip past near death clichés

Deacon woke up before Carly did. He couldn’t guess the time -- one of the unfortunate things about an underground base -- but it felt like he’d at least slept through most of the night. Most people were still asleep; even Tinker Tom was crashed on his mattress in the far corner, papers strewn around him.

Dez, of course, was up. She was at least sitting in one of the armchairs behind her desk with a file in hand, so it was possible she had slept a little. She was still the only one worse than Deacon about that kind of thing.

There was always at least an agent or two awake; despite the church’s security, having someone on watch was a good habit to have, and there were constantly reports or assessments that needed writing anyway.

He passed Nick on his way to the small set of lockers, and Nick shot him a quick grin over whatever book he’d scrounged up. Probably one Drummer had brought in, which meant it was probably dreck, but intact books were rare enough that it was tough to be picky.

“Got the time?” Deacon asked him, pulling open the locker and shoving his various bundles of clothes to the side on the hunt for his razor.

Nick paused for a beat before answering, his voice low. “Just past six.”

“What, your chronometer off?” Deacon knew his voice was muffled with his head half in the locker, but he also knew Nick had no problem hearing it regardless. “No exact reading?”

He could practically feel Nick roll his eyes. “If you want _exact_ , it’s 6:07 and 13...14...15…”

Deacon gave a snort that turned into a satisfied sound when he found the razor folded underneath an old hat. He stepped back, swinging the metal door shut as he flipped the blade open and checked the edge.

“Don’t wait for me when Bullseye gets up,” he said. “I’m taking advantage of having a decent mirror.”

Nick raised a curious eyebrow. “You shave it?”

“Trust me, detective,” Deacon said, clapping a hand to Nick’s shoulder quickly as he passed, “it’s better this way. You’d all be useless if you were constantly exposed to the sheer awesome...osity of my hair.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a long time, pal.”

They didn’t have much in the way of running water in the crypt, but the runners kept the plastic jugs and buckets they did have consistently full. It worked well enough for his purposes, anyway, and one of the agents had picked up the habit of keeping them stocked on shaving cream.

It wasn’t long enough to really see, but any time he could consistently feel the hair growing back was a time he needed to smooth it out again. His first couple years in the Railroad, Deacon had kept it grown out, styled it differently for different missions, but he’d learned the lesson pretty quickly: people don’t often forget a redhead, especially not one as _distinctively_ red as his.

He started wearing hats pretty regularly, occasionally finding wigs, but the past few years he’d decided it was just easier to keep it shaved off. The new agents didn’t have a clue and he would be surprised if every one of the veterans remembered.

Dez did, of course, but Deacon figured that was partially because she shared the same plight.

He took his time with the touch-up, relishing in the lack of anywhere urgent to be. Carly woke up shortly,, and he heard her start talking with Dez, but it wasn’t a conversation he was needed in. A few minutes were spent trying to scrub as much of the radioactive dust as he could from his face and hands before he made his way back to the main room and the small cluster of people that had gathered at Dez’s desk.

“See it’s this bit here that’ll be tricky,” Tom was saying, his nose nearly touching the drawing as he squinted at some rough diagram. “Concept seems sound, I mean so long as the transmitter holds up and the signal isn’t corrupt, but getting it to register with the rest…”

“But it is possible?” Dez asked him, and Tom straightened suddenly, laughing louder than seemed reasonable.

“Probably?” It was more of a question in itself than an answer. Tom ran both hands through his unruly hair, staring down at the drawings. “I’m tellin’ ya, Dez, the science looks like it holds up, but building it is gonna take a lot of work, a lot of programming, ton of parts that we don’t got lying around-”

“Hell of a lot of juice, too,” Carly spoke up. “I mean, how much power does it have to take to teleport someone?”

Dez already looked tired -- though, granted, that might have just been from lack of sleep. She was the type to stay up all night with a project and then dive right into another the next morning.

“We’ll figure that out when the time comes,” she said, picking up a drawing of something that might have been a platform and rotating the paper as if it might suddenly make more sense. “For now, we’ve got the basics, and that’s all we need to start. What will we need?”

Tom let out a low whistle, eyes lifting to the rocky ceiling. “Well just for the foundation, y’know, gonna need quite a lot of metal -- that much won’t be too hard, it’s just lyin’ around on the streets, just gotta hammer it out. Definitely a ton of wiring, get it stripped and rig it up, you can pull that from any old terminal as long as they’re not burned out, bunch of circuitry, probably some kind of bio-scanner…”

“Alright,” Carly interrupted, “just make me a list. If you guys can get the big stuff, we can go after the more specialized parts. What sort of scanner?”

Tom rifled through the papers quickly, tugging one out and passing it over. The rough crayon drawing didn’t exactly answer the question, but he pointed at a small box near the top. “The relay’s gotta know what it’s sendin’, right? Needs a full scan of whoever’s in it. I figure you can find something pretty powerful in one of the old hospitals, y’know, the...the MBI machines or whatever ya called ‘em. Get me one of those that’s intact and I can jerry-rig it to what we need.”

Carly nodded, squinting at the paper for a moment longer before giving it back. “Hospitals. That’s manageable.”

Tom set about making his list, scribbling it on the back of what looked like an old race advertisement. Deacon moved closer to look over the plans again and then glanced between the two women on either side.

“So million cap question -- where the hell we gonna put this thing?”

Dez frowned, pushing her hair back as she leaned over the table to look at what seemed to be a drawing of the frame. “How big is this going to end up, Tom?”

“Ah shit, I dunno, like…” Tom squinted into the distance, one finger tracing unidentifiable figures in the air. “Maybe ten feet. Maybe more.”

“So not something we can manage indoors.”

“Not unless you got a _real_ big indoors.”

“It’ll have to be secure,” Dez mused, shoving aside some papers to get to the map laid out on her desk, “but we can’t risk drawing attention to a safehouse if someone does notice something.”

Deacon leaned over enough to see the map himself. Parts of it he couldn’t understand fully -- Dez had her own system of markings to help her keep track of things while making sure it wouldn’t be devastating if the map fell into the wrong hands. He knew enough of what they had been working on to recognize a lot of it anyway, and after some thought, pointed at a spot north of Cambridge.

“What about a safehouse without anyone to risk?” he suggested. “I mean, Caretaker’s there already, but we haven’t started moving anyone through yet, have we?”

“Mercer?” Carly raised an eyebrow, her arms folding. “We cleared that place out like, a month ago, it’s still not being used?”

“We’re still doing recon of the area around it,” Dez told her. “Whether the location itself is secure or not wouldn’t matter if we can’t get synths to and from the house in the first place.” She considered it for a few moments before sighing. “As much as we need Mercer, I’d say this takes priority. It could work.”

“Gonna take awhile to get those parts anyway,” Carly said. “We’ll drop back in here once we’ve got a start and you can tell us where to deliver.”

Dez nodded, her gaze distant. She shot a look back at the chalkboard behind her, then focused on Carly again. “There is one other thing: you’ll be searching hospitals anyway, so I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I specified one in particular.”

Deacon felt something in his stomach clench briefly. He didn’t have to look at the chalkboard himself to know exactly where this was going, he’d watched Drummer write the names on it himself a day or two after they’d moved into the church. He had that list, including the ones that had been struck out, well memorized.

Carly just shrugged. “Sure, whatever you need.”

“We had a safehouse located in a hospital,” Dez told her, “Augusta. There hasn’t been any word from them since…” She paused, jaw tightening, and then pushed on. “It could be they’re laying low, not risking contact in case we were compromised, but I haven’t been able to spare a runner to check.”

“And you want me to establish contact again?”

Dez started nodding, hesitated, and then let out a breath. “If possible. After this long, I’m not particularly optimistic, but we need to know one way or another. If Augusta is still operational, we can start communication with whoever is left. If not...well, you still need that scanner.”

“Augusta.” Carly nodded slowly, looking back at the list. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“I appreciate that,” Dez said. “It’s not the priority right now, but I would like a full report on whatever you find when you have the time.”

“Of course.” One hand lifted to her face like she was about to scratch the cut there before thinking better of it. Carly turned, eyes searching until she spotted Carrington leaning against a pillar nearby. “Any chance of getting the stitches out before we leave, Doc?”

Carrington hesitated for a second. Then he sighed, straightening. “If you haven’t done anything worse to it in the past few days, maybe.”

Removing the stitches and the basic check-up Carrington insisted on gave Tom enough time to finish writing his list and Deacon enough time to pick up a few extra supplies. Tom always had a good store of cigarettes and enough rounds for Deacon’s gun that they wouldn’t have to rely on Arturo for them. He always wondered what exactly Tom spent the caps on, or who he even bought anything from in the first place, but it didn’t seem worth asking.

Carly got a clean bill of health -- or, as close as anyone who traveled as much as she did ever could -- and they were right back on the streets again.

“When all this is over,” Carly muttered, “I’m not leaving the house for a month.” She rubbed the healing scar on her face; with the help of the stims, it was already fading to a dark pink, but even removing the stitches hadn’t gotten rid of that very slight squint in her left eye. It might loosen up in time, or it might end up permanent. Probably just depended on how the scar tissue decided to grow.

“Without any celebration?” Nick asked, shooting her a small grin. “ _Congratulations, you’ve just defeated the Institute -- what are you gonna do next?_ ”

Carly snorted, eyes rolling good-naturedly. “Well something tells me Nuka World isn’t an option these days.”

It wasn’t far to Augusta. They passed Ticonderoga on the way and Deacon threw a lazy salute at the building in case whoever was on watch was really watching that closely.

He still considered it a huge stroke of luck that Ticon hadn’t been hit -- if it turned out Augusta had been, even more so, considering how close they were. High Rise had been one of the best safehouse heads they had, back when there were a good half dozen to compare him to, and his package movement rates had been second only to Randolph. Would’ve been even better if Ticon was on the outskirts like Randolph was, but the centralized location made a little extra caution necessary.

Considering they hadn’t heard from Randolph yet, either, High Rise and his crew were definitely the best these days.

Not that the bar was set high.

Damn, they really needed new safehouses.

But for that they needed locations, resources, and most importantly, experienced agents, all of which were in very short supply lately.

Deacon didn’t let himself be optimistic about what they would find at Augusta, but he  _really_ wished he could be. Getting closer to the Institute was one thing, but they were in serious need of a win on the logistical synth-moving front, too.

They climbed to the top of the hospital’s old parking garage first, shooting down a couple of bloatflys that buzzed angrily at them. The front door looked about as it always had; there was some blood smeared outside, but hell, it was Cambridge. Deacon could spot the safehouse symbol painted on a plank of wood, still distinguishable even though it had started to fade.

No synths outside. No landmines. No bodies.

Despite his best efforts, Deacon felt a tiny surge of optimism.

“Not gonna be a scanner up here,” he said after a minute or two. “Might as well get to it. And listen,” he glanced over at Carly, “if there are people to talk to --”

“I know,” she cut in. “I’ll let you handle it.”

Deacon chuckled. “Exact opposite, actually; I’ll handle introductions, since I imagine your outfit will cause some concerns, but you’re every bit the agent I am. You do the talking, I’ll let you know if I pick up on anything. Aspen is the head of this one, you’ll want to find her.”

She looked surprised, but nodded after a second, and they started back for the stairs.

Nick was keeping his eyes on the streets around them, his hand firmly on his pistol. As they neared the door he stepped a bit closer to Deacon. “What do you think we’ll find in there?”

Deacon shrugged. “Best case scenario? A welcoming party with some Blamco for lunch. Worst case…” He glanced at Carly, but his mind wouldn’t even bother trying to figure out how they might survive a Courser if one happened to be waiting for them. “I guess we’ll see.”

Carly had a hand on the door. She looked to the others and lifted three fingers.

_Three._

He would have to explain the whole Courser uniform quickly to keep them from getting shot, should’ve thought of something better for her to wear…

_Two._

They hadn’t had any contact with Augusta, if there were survivors, none of them would know the new countersign, he’d have to use the one they had before Switchboard…

_One._

The smell of decay that hit almost immediately after the door opened drove all of those thoughts away in an instant.

That smell told Deacon all he needed to know about Augusta’s fate.

It took Nick’s whispered, “Are we going?” for Deacon to realize that he and Carly had both frozen. It took another second to realize that Nick couldn’t smell it.

They ducked inside before they could attract any unwanted attention by standing at an open door, and the lobby was dark when that door swung shut behind them. There was a low burning fire in a metal trash can, but none of the electricity was on.

Carly was tense -- even more than he’d expected -- and her shoulders were hunched like she was trying to get her nose under her high collar without being too obvious about it. Not the worst Deacon had smelled, but it was evident that whoever had taken up residence here didn’t have any qualms about leaving bodies out to rot.

Definitely not Institute, even the Coursers were too sensible for that.

Super mutants would have left the place in a much worse state than it was.

Raiders, then.

“Eyes peeled,” Carly whispered after a pause to make sure the room they were in was empty. “We still need that scanner.”

A lot of the defenses set up had been put there by Aspen. Some of them were broken -- no turrets whirred to life, which was probably a good thing, given the circumstances -- but it looked like the raiders had repaired the basic walls and points of cover. Carly clicked on her Pip-Boy’s light and Deacon stuck close by to stay in the glow and avoid stepping on anything unpleasant.

It still wasn’t clear just what had happened to the safehouse in the first place. It was possible that Aspen had heard of what happened at the Switchboard and packed up. Deacon felt it extremely unlikely that raiders had managed to best a group with at least two resident heavies, more that they had just found the building up for the taking and moved in.

If Augusta had been wiped out, it would almost certainly have been the Institute’s doing. A little hard to investigate with everything moved around and bloody.

He found it ironic that it was the more analytical side of him, the one that considered every possibility, that was giving a slight chance for someone to have survived. They had an escape route here, he knew, and Aspen would never have hesitated to use it.

It still seemed far more likely that the Institute had hit here just like they had at Allen.

Carly found the remnants of a directory leaning up against the wall behind a counter. The words were faded, but after a moment or two of squinting she looked back at the others.

“MRI is third floor,” she said. “Seems a likely place as any.”

“You know what these things look like?” Nick asked, and Carly’s hesitation was clear.

“Been in a MRI, finding that won’t be the problem. It’s the scanner that’s…” She pulled open one of the pouches sewn onto the black leather and unfolded a piece of paper. “Tom sketched it as best he could, so we’ve got some kind of reference, at least.”

The fact that they hadn’t run into any raiders yet was starting to be a little concerning. Deacon didn’t know whether to expect an ambush or for something even worse to have come through and wiped them out too. Maybe the Institute wanted to keep this building and didn’t appreciate the raiders moving in after it had been cleared the first time.

Of course, if that were the case, he would’ve expected an ambush anyway.

The continued silence had him more on edge, if only because he had no idea what was coming.

They were wary making their way through the first floor. This part of the building was practically a maze; Aspen had set it up to try and deter anyone making an attack from the front door. There were blind corners and sudden dead-ends everywhere, ideal for the agents who knew the layout to defend and a death trap for anyone trying to fight past it. It had never been a very warm welcome for the synths they brought in at first, but Augusta had always been considered one of the safer locations from raiders or Gunners.

They hadn’t known then, of course, that the Institute could just teleport anywhere in the building they wanted.

Deacon led the way through that portion. He had only been inside Augusta a few times, mostly in his early days when he was still doing message deliveries, but he could remember the basics well enough to get to where it turned into regular hallways instead of twisting wooden corridors.

Still no raiders.

He’d take a gunfight over this constant threat hanging over them.

There was evidence of people living in a few of the rooms; old hospital mattresses pulled into a slightly bigger bed, the remains of a meal that didn’t look too old, but no sign of the current residents.

They passed a large door leading to another hallway, and after a few feet Carly stopped, backtracking and cupping one hand around her eyes to try to peer through the small window.

“Find something?” Nick asked her. Even at a low volume his voice seemed far too loud.

Carly pulled back, her expression thoughtful, and then jabbed a thumb up at the peeling sign above the door. “OB/GYN. They should have ultrasounds, that sorta thing. Might have what we need in one of those.”

Deacon squinted at the sign, not entirely sure how that particular string of letters could tell her that much, but it didn’t seem worth questioning. “You just trying to avoid the stairs, boss?”

The look she shot him was unimpressed, and they pushed through the door. The area had the distinct look of a place that had been thoroughly looted, but Carly had proven an adept scavver. Anyone who spent much time on the road had to be, especially when the real settlements were so few and far between.

She was distracted today, though. Something in her face -- something Deacon could see even in the sparse light they had -- was distant, focused somewhere else, and that was never good in a building potentially full of people that wanted them dead.

The first few rooms didn’t turn up anything. Hospitals were probably one of the first places to be hit after the initial blast, and these days they were more useful for their sturdy foundations than any potential for medical supplies. They could only hope that the actual mechanics of the equipment hadn’t been considered very important. At least the Brotherhood hadn’t been around very long, or it would’ve been a much more difficult task.

Nick stopped abruptly about halfway down the hall, his hand lifting when the other two looked around at him. He was watching a door further down and jerked his head at it after a few seconds.

“Got company,” he whispered.

Deacon listened, couldn’t pick up any kind of difference in the sounds of the quietly creaking building, but after the incident with the radscorpion he wasn’t about to question Nick’s hearing.

Carly frowned, turning off the light on the Pip-Boy. One hand hovered over her pistol for a moment before she bent to pull the knife out of a sheathe that Deacon hadn’t noticed her pick up. Better than having it just stuck in her boot, at least, probably got it from Tom before they left HQ.

“How many?” she asked.

Nick paused, eyes narrowing. Eventually he held up two fingers and then, after a beat and a quick shake of his head, a third. Carly nodded and moved down the hall carefully.

The door was partially open, and Deacon could smell the alcohol before they even got to it. Wherever the other raiders were, these guys had apparently decided to skip the party in favor of their own. There was a lantern lit in one corner of the room, and from what Deacon could see of one guy leaning against the far wall, there had been plenty of chems involved, too.

Well, less of a threat, at least.

Carly stepped in first, and there was just enough time for the guy next to the door to manage a slurred, “Wh’the fu--” before he took the hilt of the knife straight to the temple and crumpled. The other two stumbled to their feet, scrabbling for weapons.

Deacon swung his rifle around, knocking a shoddy pistol out of the hands of the second raider before it could aim at any of them. It took two good hits with the stock of the rifle for the guy to stay down. There was no small amount of panic in the eyes of the third when Nick strode into the room, metal hand reflecting the dim lantern light and yellow eyes glowing brightly.

The raider went down easily, a smear of blood at his hairline.

There were a few seconds of silence. Deacon listened for any sounds down the hallway, but it was still strangely quiet.

Where the hell were the rest of them?

“Let’s get them tied up or something,” Carly said eventually. “If they do wake up I’d rather not have anyone raising the alarm.”

She used her knife to start a tear in one of the blankets piled in a corner. They had the first raider secured with thin strips of the fabric, longer ones tying his hands and feet and a smaller acting as a gag.

There wasn’t any certainty they’d wake up, but Deacon appreciated the caution.

Carly had the feet of the second man tied and was cutting the next strip when his eyes snapped open. Somehow he managed to lunge, knocking her onto her back with a throaty yell.

Her blade flashed before Deacon had time to move, before Nick had taken more than a step forward. The blood looked darker in the lantern’s light and in the small room, the raider’s gurgling gasp echoed louder than he was prepared for.

The man fell, hands scrabbling at the deep slice across his throat for a few seconds before going still.

Nick swore a moment later, and it was only then that Deacon realized Carly had yet to move. He couldn’t see any injuries, didn’t think the raider had any weapons when he attacked, but it was hard to tell --

She sat up abruptly, eyes locked on the hand that held the knife. There was a tremor there, only visible because of the light reflecting off of the blade and the blood. Nick knelt down beside her.

“You hurt?” he asked.

Carly didn’t answer. Didn’t even seem to register that he was there. Her eyes were still wide, staring a hole through her hand, and other than the slight shaking she didn’t move.

This, at least, Deacon recognized.

“Carly?” Nick looked wary. His movements were slow and deliberate as he put a hand on her arm. She gave a sharp jerk, head snapping around to stare at him now. “You alright?”

Something in her eyes hardened. She looked like she forcibly pushed the shock aside in favor of impatience, getting to her feet and wiping the blade off on the nearby blanket before sliding it back into its sheathe.

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m _fine_ , Nick.”

He straightened, looking over at Deacon with a frown like he was hoping for some kind of help.

Wasn’t likely; Deacon recognized that kind of thing just fine. Didn’t mean he knew how to handle it other than moving on.

His answer was to wait until Carly looked at him and then nod once. “Let’s get to work, eh, Bullseye?”

Carly nodded back curtly, leading the way out of the room at a brisk walk.

They found an intact flight of stairs and made it to the second floor without any problems. Deacon did his best to remember the layout of the place, but he had only been to the center of the safehouse once. The area in the building where multiple floors had collapsed had served as a sort of common area, and the remnants of floors around it were good for the synths passing through to use as private rooms until they were moved.

It was complicated to reach. The building had been like that even before Aspen added her own security, and was a large part of the reason they had taken it as a safehouse in the first place. Now it just made things inconvenient.

They were trying to find a way past a blocked door when Deacon heard the first muffled cheer. It was faint, definitely from the center of the building, and followed by a series of softer, rhythmic pounding. He looked over at the other two and their frowns told him they’d heard it too.

“Think we found the raiders,” Nick muttered. “The hell are they doing?”

Deacon snorted. “Something tells me you don’t want to know.”

“They’re occupied,” Carly said. “That’s all I care about.”

They abandoned the door, moving on to the next open hallway. Usually Deacon could get used to smells pretty quickly, but the lingering decay seemed to be getting stronger. There weren’t bodies in any of the rooms they searched, which seemed strange for raiders. Most of them had a habit of collecting anything valuable and then either leaving the body where it fell or hanging it up as a warning.

He wasn’t sure whether the absence of corpses was a good or a bad sign.

Carly dug up a few loose fuses that she put in her bag before they got to the staircase that went to the third floor. There was no telling if they still worked or not, but there was probably something in them that Tom could use.

They found the bodies very shortly after getting to the top of the stairs. Not that there was much left.

They were in a cart, something that looked like it used to carry laundry. Carly didn’t try for subtly this time, one hand covering her nose with a quiet curse as she turned away.

Deacon couldn’t blame her, but he also couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else. The decay made it nearly impossible to recognize any features, but he knew the patched-together mechanic’s jumpsuit on one. Aspen had always been the crafting type, constantly building up the defenses around the safehouse, but she’d never been much for real armor.

The burn marks on what remained of any clothes made it pretty clear that laser weapons had been what actually killed them. Given that and the state of decay, Deacon felt it was safe to blame the Institute; Augusta had been hit the same time as the rest, probably within an hour of the Switchboard falling. The raiders had just taken the empty building.

Exactly what they had been expecting.

The validation did nothing to loosen the knot in his throat.

“C’mon,” Carly muttered eventually. “Let’s find that damn scanner and get the hell out of here.”

“I’ll catch up.” Deacon was glad that his voice was as steady as ever, and after a short hesitation he looked around at the baffled faces of the other two. “Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.”

Carly was shaking her head before he even finished the sentence. “We’re not splitting up, not here.”

“Look, there are…” He glanced around and waved a hand at one of signs on the wall that pointed to various wings on the floor. “There are signs everywhere, I know where you’re going. I’ll catch up, I just…” It took a pause and swallowing once to work around whatever was trying to obscure his throat, make sure he still sounded normal. “I just need a minute.”

Carly and Nick exchanged a skeptical look. Nick didn’t seem convinced, but he also didn’t argue when Carly nodded.

“Give a shout if you need help,” she told him. “Won’t be hard to hear in this place.”

She started down the hall again, stifling a cough in the crook of her elbow. Nick hesitated, and for a second Deacon was worried he’d try arguing after all, but then he turned too, his longer legs catching up with Carly easily.

Deacon didn’t look back at the cart. Not immediately, at least, but it was hard to avoid as his bag slipped to the floor. He wasn’t entirely sure what emotions he had to stamp down, just that they were strong and distinctly unhelpful.

It wasn’t like he’d known anyone in Augusta well; out of all of their safehouses, Deacon had frequented Ticon the most. He’d known Aspen as well as most of the other agents. They’d spoken a few times in passing, complained about all of the raider nests in Cambridge, and then gone their separate ways. That had been back when there were enough agents in the Railroad that being overly familiar with every single one of them didn’t come standard.

This wasn’t the first time they had lost people. It wouldn’t be the last.

But dammit, they had _really_ needed a win for once.

Ticon was going strong. Stanwix and Griswold had reported in with no losses or any indication that they had been compromised. Dayton was operational, but wary of increased activity nearby.

With this trip, Randolph was the only safehouse that had yet to be verified either way.

Including the Switchboard, that was four locations that had been wiped out. They were literally running at half capacity -- probably even less, considering the understandable fear of the next attack.

Deacon felt his nails digging into his palms and forced his hands open, resisting the sudden urge to punch a wall. It took some effort to pull his eyes away from the bodies, and he paced a few steps down the hall before turning back, pulling his hat off long enough to rub a hand over his head.

He needed to get back to the others. They had a job to do, mourning was a luxury for after they won.

It was harder than it should have been to get his breathing steady, but Deacon felt he could partially blame that on the smell. He leaned against the nearest wall, his head resting on the arm propping him up, and managed to force his face back into something normal.

He heard the footsteps past the odd ringing in his ears. Deacon knew his reaction time was slower than it should be, something that was likely to get someone killed in the Commonwealth, but he’d half expected Carly to get paranoid and come back after a minute anyway.

It was a split second after he started turning, some dry comment about her worrying too much fully ready, before he realized there had been three sets of footsteps.

Well, _shit_.

Anything that might have been the start of a yell was turned into a choked wheeze when something hard hit him square in the chest, knocking him back into the wall and clearing all of the air from his lungs. One hand flew to his pistol, then froze a few inches from it when the barrel of another gun pressed against his temple.

Deacon recognized the raider even in the dim light -- or, rather, recognized the blood at his hairline and the unsteady way he was holding himself.

Right. They had forgotten to tie this one up after the incident with the throat-cutting.

“Looks like we’re in luck,” the raider hissed, even as Deacon tried for some quick risk assessment. His odds didn’t come out great. “Got a bonus round for today’s show.”

“You said there were three of them,” one of the others said -- a female voice under some kind of heavy helmet, the wielder of the metal baseball bat that had hit him to begin with. “This ain’t three.”

The first raider just grinned. His breath was foul as he let out a huff of a laugh. “They’ll come lookin’.”

 _They will_ , Deacon noted, just before the gun at his head was turned enough to ram the grip into his temple instead, _that’s the problem._

* * *

He still couldn’t quite catch a breath when he first came to, but it didn’t take long to realize that it was more because of the smell than anything else. The combination of decay and much more recent death had Deacon fighting the immediate gag reflex even before he got his eyes open.

It was a lot brighter here. His sunglasses were gone. His guns were gone. That wasn’t surprising, even if it was confusing.

His head also hurt like hell, but that was pretty common.

“Looks like intermission is over, folks!” The booming voice made Deacon push past the headache and nausea to sit up.

He looked around, hand twitching toward where his pistol should be. It was easy enough to recognize the place -- the collapsed floor, ramps and stairs thrown together to connect the different levels…

But the cage was certainly new.

“Got a visitor today,” the voice continued. Finding the source of it definitely wasn’t priority right now. “Didn’t even have to go out and find this one, he just waltzed right in on his own -- nice of him, right?”

Deacon barely heard the words, didn’t pay attention to the scattered jeering from raiders scattered around the various levels, because the thing in the cage was holding all of his attention.

Of course, somehow, these bastards had a Deathclaw.

“The hell is this?” he muttered, ignoring the headache long enough to push himself to his feet. The Deathclaw wasn’t focusing on him specifically; it was turning in the cage restlessly, tail swishing and letting out a low, continuous growl. The enclosure looked strong, and the fact that the Deathclaw wasn’t rampaging right now was probably a good sign.

He did see a few wires running up from the cage to one of the floors above. Door control, maybe. When the hell had raiders gotten that sophisticated?

It took some effort to pull his eyes away from the cage, and Deacon turned to the general direction that the loudest voice was coming from, hands spreading out at his sides. “The hell is this?”

“Seems pretty obvious, pal,” the guy called, and Deacon managed to lock in on the man behind the voice -- a tall, gangly looking type with patched together armor. “Dinner and a show -- only she’s got the dinner,” he waved one arm at the Deathclaw, “and we’ve got the show.”

There was a collective cheer, and the rhythmic pounding Deacon had heard before started up again. It was the sound of gun stocks against the floor and walls, and if the volume of it was any indication as to how many people were involved, he had been right about his odds. Seeing the cage hadn’t exactly made them any higher.

Of _course_ they had a Deathclaw.

There was no telling how, and figuring that out was far from important compared to figuring out how to stay alive. Deacon made himself look around the pit again, ignoring the commentator and his raucous audience. Deathclaw fight pit. That was one he hadn’t expected to stumble across, let alone get dragged into. There were still a few bodies scattered along the edges, though none of them were even slightly recognizable after facing those claws.

He should probably be panicking. Reasonable people would panic.

Instead, his eyes locked on the large metal door on one wall.

Escape route.

It had to be how they got the Deathclaw inside in the first place, so it had to still work. He actually knew how to open the thing, unlike the poor saps littering the floor now, so if he could just buy enough time to manage it without being shot…

If he were alone, it would be simple. But they had never set any kind of “if someone gets captured” plans, and it wasn’t like Carly or Nick knew about the back door.

No, they were almost certainly coming to find him.

Considering the numbers they were up against, that wasn’t promising for any of them.

A swell in the cheering drew his attention to the larger immediate issue. Much larger, in this case. He hadn’t understood much of anything the commentator was yelling, but something told him the introductions were over.

“The record stands at five minutes and thirteen seconds,” the raider called, and Deacon heard a low creak of the metal door swinging open. “Feel free to use whatever you find down there -- who knows, you might get lucky!”

That got a good laugh. Probably would’ve been smart to spend the time looking for a weapon of any kind, even just getting a feel for the layout, and _shit_ it was out of the cage...

The Deathclaw seemed wary at first. Deacon could see a few streaks of dark blood around some scales that he was fairly certain weren’t human. The sudden _snap_ of a suppressed gun proved his theory, and though the bullet hit somewhere on a shoulder, far from anything vital, the Deathclaw whipped its head around with a loud snarl. Of course, the first possible threat it could hone in on was the one stuck in the pit too.

Deacon scrambled back, out of range of the claws as it started toward him, trying to figure out how to get out of the damn pit and stay alive at the same time. There was plenty of rubble to trip over, and the common sense telling him to keep an eye on his feet warred with the primal instinct to watch the eight-foot hellbeast coming after him.

“She’s takin’ her time today,” the raider said, “probably remembers that last guy; he got close, didn’t he? Just couldn’t quite beat those claws -- ooh, and there she goes!’

Deacon didn’t swear out loud -- he didn’t have enough disposable air to warrant the waste -- but he felt the idea of it in every fiber of his being when the Deathclaw lunged, claws scraping the concrete just a few feet from where he had managed to dive out of the way. It turned immediately and he just managed to duck under the next swipe, tearing a hole in his jeans even wider as he dove over a slightly higher chunk of rubble.

Just a few long steps to the opposite wall. The small area wasn’t ideal for the Deathclaw to maneuver, but it also wasn’t good for him to avoid the much longer reach. There was some temptation to try shutting himself in the cage, since the bars looked too close together for the Deathclaw to reach through, but he figured the raiders had probably already thought of that. Getting cornered in a small box with a door that wouldn’t shut seemed like a very stupid way to get killed.

The commentary was still going. Deacon wasn’t sure who it benefited, but the guy certainly seemed to like the sound of his own voice.

“We got a fast one in here, don’t we? Some go out on the first attack, but I guess this isn’t his first run-in with one of these babies. Keepin’ the cage between them, see, that’s smart thinking.”

If he ever managed to get a hold of a gun, Deacon decided firmly, that guy was getting the first bullet.

He wasn’t even really sure what he was trying to do besides the immediate “don’t get gored.” There wasn’t any obvious way out of the pit, and the constant movement to avoid the Deathclaw’s lunges kept him from getting to the door.

Not like it was much of an option; it seemed likely that the raiders would just shoot him if he managed to get the thing open, and even if he did get out, that meant Carly and Nick were still in the building.

And he had promised to stick with Carly. As much as his word could be taken with a grain of salt, that was one he intended to keep.

A chunk of sharp stone cut into his arm when Deacon stumbled, catching himself in time to dodge around the cage again. The sound of claws hitting the metal was far louder in the confined space, and the Deathclaw let out a short, frustrated snarl.

The blood definitely wouldn’t help.

“Oh, and she’s pissed now!” the raider said. He sounded delighted by the fact. “What’d I tell ya, folks, I said this would be a good one. He’s --”

The abrupt silence made it very tempting to look up, but the Deathclaw bounding over the chunks of concrete held his attention. Deacon managed to get behind it for a few seconds before the sweeping tail knocked him in the shoulder, and he had to scramble to his feet to avoid the claws a second afterwards.

He did notice that the cheering had quieted. It was hard to hear much above the sound of his heart pounding in his ears and the Deathclaw’s growls, but there was at least one gunshot that seemed out of place.

It was far from priority, though, as he had to roll over at least one exposed piece of rebar to keep as much distance as he could between himself and the pissed-off lizard. Deacon was already breathing hard and scraped up. The Deathclaw didn’t look the slightest bit tired; if anything, it was just moving faster the more annoyed it got.

There was still no clear way out of the damn pit, and he couldn’t pause long enough to get a decent breath, let alone closely examine the room.

“Comin’ up on four minutes,” the raider called, and _how the hell had it only been four minutes_ , “we might have a new -- well I told you to _handle it_.”

The last part was snapped, and Deacon couldn’t resist the urge to glance at the surrounding floors. There wasn’t time to determine much besides the fact that there were slightly fewer people up there before he felt the concrete underneath his feet shift, had to move again to dodge the next lunge.

His hands were bleeding now too, _what the hell was he even doing,_ the ribs that had been cracked in the Sea were flaring up with the prolonged heavy breathing, _there’s a damn good reason he wasn’t a heavy,_ and he couldn’t even spare the mental effort to figure out why the raiders had started yelling rather than cheering.

Deacon had no idea what he was trying to do. He knew how to work the door, but even if he did manage to work the switch and get to the button in time, one of the raiders would figure out what he was doing very easily and likely just take him out to keep things contained. There was almost no doubt that Carly and Nick would end up finding their way into this place, but Deacon was really starting to see why the record was just a little over five minutes.They’d have to take care of the raiders first and then the Deathclaw, and by that point…

He misstepped. More blood blossomed up where his arms hit the rubble, and Deacon rolled onto his back, felt like he stared up at the horned head above him for far more than that split second, and managed to roll back over just as the clawed hand came down.

It was more of a swat than an attempt to take his head off. The claws tore through the reinforcement in his jacket and into his back, but without the armor they probably would’ve done a hell of a lot more damage.

Didn’t stop it from knocking the air out of his lungs when he hit the floor a few feet away, or keep the pain from making it extremely hard to draw in a fresh breath. Adrenaline and the very stubborn determination to stay alive pushed Deacon back onto his feet, but his movement wasn’t as coordinated or as fast. The blood was already running down his legs, and _dammit_ hadn’t he lost enough of that lately?

Part of him noted that he hadn’t heard any of the raider’s commentary in a little while, and that hit seemed like it should’ve gotten a lot of approval. There were more gunshots now, but none of them were taking the Deathclaw’s attention off of him, so they weren’t worth thinking about.

But he recognized the sound of that pistol.

Well, he had expected they’d come looking.

Deacon didn’t let himself focus on that; the Deathclaw didn’t care, so he couldn’t care. He was just barely staying out of reach at this point, stumbled more often, and the temptation to try for the cage was getting stronger.

He took another hit, this time with the back of the Deathclaw’s hand, and it was in the second spent trying to stand that he saw the body fall from one of the upper levels.

The Deathclaw paused long enough to look, sniffing the air once, and then turned its focus back to Deacon.

He did let himself swear then, breathlessly, as he forced his legs to move despite the fact they were starting to shake. Usually Deathclaws would take something freshly killed over something they still had to catch, but they were also ridiculously territorial. This was a small territory, but that was just all the more reason to protect it from the small, frantic human running around it.

“Get the damn gun!”

Nick’s voice. That was unexpected. Deacon figured they’d come, but didn’t imagine he’d still be alive when they did.

The words didn’t sink in immediately. It was hard to pay attention to anything but the pain in his back and the determination to stay on his feet just a few seconds longer. Then he nearly tripped over the new body, looked down just long enough to notice the grip of a large pistol, and tugged it free before running again.

He had a gun. That was something, at least.

It was a plasma pistol, something Deacon wasn’t overly familiar with, but the cells looked full and it didn’t feel like it was about to fall apart in his hands. He fumbled at the safety for a second, the blood on his hands not making the task any easier, before turning enough to level it at the Deathclaw’s head and pull the trigger.

He’d braced himself for recoil that didn’t come, and that made him stumble forward a step, but it evened out as the Deathclaw reared back. The plasma would be more of an irritant than an actual threat, but it might just distract the thing long enough for him to...do something.

Granted, the plasma would also piss it off even more.

Deacon still hadn’t spotted Nick; he had sounded pretty close, probably on one of the lowest floors, but now that there was an opportunity to pay attention to what was happening above it was clear the the whole thing had devolved into a mess.

The raiders didn’t seem to have any idea where their new enemies were, either. They were shouting orders at each other and every one of them seemed to be ignored. Every once in awhile, another shot from Nick’s pistol would silence one of the shouting voices, and the rest would grow louder to compensate for it.

It didn’t take long for the Deathclaw to attack again, and Deacon hit it with another plasma shot as he scrambled out of the way. It looked confused, one clawed hand swiping at where the goo was sizzling on its scales. Probably wasn’t used to any kind of retaliation from the prey in the pit.

Deacon ignored the loud snarl and the blood now starting to pool in his shoes, taking his eyes off of the Deathclaw long enough to scan the lower floor.

He nearly tripped on the rubble again and gave up the search, keeping his pistol leveled at the beast that now seemed much more wary about approaching.

“Where’s Bullseye?” he shouted. There was another barrage of gunfire, and a raider trying to run across one of the bridges collapsed before he got an answer.

“Watching my back.” That was enough for Deacon to pinpoint at least the general direction Nick’s voice was coming from, though he still couldn’t see anything. The sudden _crack_ of a high-caliber rifle made him jump, and another body fell just as Nick laughed. “There she is now!”

She had always been surprisingly good with long-range guns.

The raiders were still scrambling, and though Deacon could hear the shots from their guns, none of them seemed to have any idea what they were shooting at. They were disorganized already, and trying to take out someone out of sight didn’t help.

“Get her and get down here,” Deacon told him, trusting Nick’s hearing over the noise of the gunshots and shouting. “I’ve got an exit.”

“You have noticed the _Deathclaw_ down there, right?”

“Trust me on this, Nick.” That was, of course, a point; it took a lot of effort to ignore the pain that only got worse every time he had to dodge around the cage again. He tried to get a shot at the Deathclaw any time it got close. Whenever he hit, it bought a few seconds, but it was getting harder to move quickly without vertigo kicking in.

The Deathclaw being wary didn’t make its claws any less sharp. Didn’t make it any less pissed off.

Deacon made himself focus on that current problem, tried not to think about the fact that he’d only heard the one shot from Carly’s rifle, because that definitely wasn’t going to be of any help right now. He kept half an eye on the power switch on the wall, ignoring the way his legs were shaking a little more with every step and the fact that he had no idea how much ammo the plasma pistol had.

If it ran out, well...he definitely didn’t want to consider that.

The sound of a pistol directly to his left made Deacon’s head snap around, and it was lucky that the shot distracted the Deathclaw because he nearly hit the ground when his foot caught on rebar.

Seeing Nick, narrowed glowing eyes and tattered trench coat, was probably one of the biggest reliefs Deacon had felt in a hell of a long time.

The Deathclaw was definitely confused now, its tail lashing as it looked between the two of them with a low growl. In the pause, Deacon noticed that a lot of the gunfire had stopped and the shouting sounded more distant.

“Bullseye?” he asked, and Nick jerked his head upwards.

“Right behind me.”

Carly appeared at the edge of the lowest floor a second later, and the way she had her pistol in her left hand was an immediate concern. She didn’t hesitate, though, sliding down onto the top of the large generator next to the cage and from there to the floor next to Nick.

“Got rid of most of the ones with guns,” she said, and her voice was strained as she eyed the Deathclaw that was now pacing in one corner. When it fixed its eyes on her, a quick shot to the face got it rearing back again. So there was an apparent benefit to the raiders’ version of training. “A bunch drew back into the hall, but they’re not gonna hold off for long. You got a way out?”

Deacon nodded to his right. “Metal door. There’s a button next to it. Someone’s gotta flip the power on and then you hit the button right after, only got a second or two before it shuts down again.” He backed up a few steps when the Deathclaw tried to advance on him, and three simultaneous shots made it rear back again with a sharp snarl. “I’ve got the switch, Nick, you watch her back at the door.”

“I’m a hell of a lot faster than you right now,” Nick said, and he was already moving toward the wall before Deacon could even start to protest. “Not a debate, get to the door and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Deacon couldn’t come up with any kind of argument as he watched Nick pass him, and he barely noticed himself moving back toward Carly. The Deathclaw was far more interested in him than it was any of the others, probably thanks to the excess of blood, but it did mean it was focused more on their movements toward the large door than Nick’s toward the other wall.

They had to back up quickly to avoid a frustrated swipe, and another hit of plasma sent the Deathclaw back a few steps as it shook its head frantically. The sound of the raiders’ shouting was getting loud.

Not much was really processing as fast as it should, which might have been the adrenaline or the blood loss, or some combination of the two. Deacon heard Nick’s sharp, “ _Now!_ ”, heard the buzz of electricity in the door, and the Deathclaw’s roar as they stumbled back through the new opening. Deacon hit one of the walls and had to stop for a few seconds when the room tipped.

A hand on his upper arm tugged him straight again and it took a hard blink to get things back in focus. He let himself grin wearily even as Nick pulled him down the hallway after Carly.

“Alright, so you might be faster than me.”

“Helps not having lungs sometimes,” Nick said. “How far we going?”

Deacon made himself focus on the hall, tried to fight past the growing haze to remember what Aspen had told him about the route. “First left,” he said, “then just follow it down. Think it...opens up to the back of the building.”

It didn’t take long at all to get to the door despite Deacon’s more than occasional stumbling; it was barred, near impossible to open from the outside, but Nick pulled it up easily. Carly poked her head out long enough to do a scan of the immediate area before she shut the door again, holstered her pistol, and let her bag slip from her shoulder.

It was only then that Deacon noticed both the bag and her rifle were on the left shoulder, and she was holding the other one too carefully to not be intentional.

“The hell happened to you, boss?” he asked, and for a split second he could swear she looked embarrassed.

“You need a stim,” she said. “White as a damn sheet, _again_ , I swear it’s like you don’t even like having blood in you.”

Deacon fought the urge to take a step back, partially because he knew she was right, and partially because he didn’t trust himself to stay upright if he tried. That didn’t make him like the damn things any more.

“Only if you tell me -- don’t see any blood, you get shot?”

Carly paused, glanced down the hall the way they’d come, and then let out an impatient sigh.

“I used the gun.” She pulled a stimpak out of the bag and tugged the cap off the needle with her teeth. “The recoil’s a bit stronger without power armor, I wasn’t expecting it.”

It took Deacon a second to piece that together and the snort of laughter quickly changed into a sharp hiss when she jabbed the needle into his shoulder.

He’d seen the same injury plenty of times, and while broken collarbones hurt like hell at the time, they usually healed relatively quickly -- faster still with a stimpak. It seemed fitting given the absurdity of the whole situation.

“I wanna get some distance from this place,” Carly said as she picked up her stuff again and pulled open the door. “They probably won’t bother following this way, not with the Deathclaw still loose, but I’d rather not take the chance.” She gave Deacon a cautious look when he grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. “You alright to walk?”

She knew it’d be a lie. They all did. Didn’t stop him from trying for a crooked grin as he blinked the spots from his eyes. It took him a second to remember that he didn’t have his sunglasses on and he stopped immediately.

“Never better.”

“Bullshit,” Nick muttered, but he didn’t press it and looked Carly over quickly. “You do need to take care of that shoulder,” he told her. The door slammed shut behind them and he shot a wary look around the street. “Not exactly great for shooting.”

Carly hesitated, then sighed again. “You got any stims hidden away? Because that was my last.”

“I could’ve taken half,” Deacon protested immediately, though a sudden wave of vertigo didn’t help his case when he stumbled again, feeling Nick’s hand brush his shoulder before he managed to right himself. “I hate the things anyway, you’re --”

“Stopping active bleeding is a bit more of a priority than a cracked bone,” she cut him off. “Especially with how much you lost, I mean _really._ I’ll manage.”

Neither of them bothered arguing with her further, and they cut a path through the buildings, veering occasionally down an alley in an attempt to throw off any potential tails.

Deacon knew he was slower than usual, and the feeling of lightheadedness was one he was overly familiar with at this point. He’d also gotten pretty good at spotting a blackout before it happened. It took some careful breathing to keep the dark edges around his vision at bay, and he had one hand constantly half-raised to catch himself on a nearby wall any time his legs tried to give out.

Which, admittedly, was way more often than he’d like.

Probably only upright at this point thanks to sheer stubbornness. After all, they had a job to do.

The back of Deacon’s jacket, or what was left of it, was soaked with blood even with the gouges closing themselves at the surface thanks to the stimpak. He could still feel the occasional trickle of blood from the places that still had yet to heal. The remaining adrenaline kept him from really feeling the pain, both from the actual injury and now the skin stretching itself back together, but the moment they paused in the shell of some old shop, the exhaustion hit hard.

There was a sort of unspoken agreement; Deacon sank to the floor behind a crumbling counter and Carly started on a quick perimeter check, her pistol held cautiously in her left hand.

Deacon let his head fall forward between his knees, forcing slow breaths that didn’t pull the cuts open again. It only took a few seconds for Nick to kneel a foot or so away and a few more for Deacon to look up. After a second he remembered that his sunglasses were still back with the raiders and glanced away again.

“You sure you’re alright?” Nick asked.

Deacon managed a quiet, breathless laugh. “I mean, if I never see a Deathclaw again it’ll be too soon, but the blood loss is old news at this point so...all things considered, it was just a graze. It’ll heal fine.”

“Not just talkin’ about that; I know we were expecting the worst for Augusta, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

For some reason, the instinctual dismissive reply caught in Deacon’s throat before he could get it out. He had to pause, trying to push back the memory of that damn cart.

“We all knew what we were getting into with this job,” he said after a moment. “Not exactly...not low-risk work.” When Nick just raised an eyebrow, Deacon shrugged, regretting it a second later as it pulled at the cuts, and taking a second to breathe slowly. “Not the first time we’ve lost people. Won’t be the last. I’m good.”

Nick nodded, but his eyes were moving rapidly, like he wasn’t sure where exactly to look. Then he was leaning forward, both arms going around Deacon’s back -- though he was careful to not touch the claw marks -- and pulling him close.

Instincts screamed attack, common sense reminded him that was pretty unlikely from Nick, and the sudden conflict made freezing his first reaction.

“You _really_ need to stop almost dying,” Nick whispered. His voice was close and his breath would’ve been on Deacon’s neck if Nick actually breathed.

How long had it been since someone had legitimately hugged him?

Normally he would have laughed it off right away, shot off something dismissive, because he didn’t do this kind of familiarity.

This time, the combination of exhaustion and the relief of still somehow being alive drowned out the immediate objections. He didn’t entirely return the embrace, but he did let himself lean into it. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke on Nick’s coat was unexpectedly calming.

“I’ll work on that,” Deacon said, and he felt the start of Nick’s laugh before the sound of Carly’s footsteps approaching had him immediately sitting back again with no little amount of dizziness as a result. He met no resistance, and Nick offered a smile that looked just a little tired before he got to his feet.

“How’re we looking?” he asked Carly. Deacon didn’t miss the way she glanced between them before answering.

“Nothing in the immediate area, but I imagine all that blood is going to attract some less than fun things.”

Deacon lifted one hand, nodding in a vaguely eastward direction when they looked at him. “Ticon isn’t far from here. We can drop in there, get cleaned up a bit before heading to headquarters.”

Carly nodded, shooting a wary glance over her shoulder. “Sounds like a good idea. High Rise will probably have some meds, too, get this shoulder fixed up. If you’re ready...”

He nodded immediately, paused to squeeze his eyes shut when the world tilted dangerously again, and then accepted her offered hand to slowly pull himself to his feet.

They set off toward the safehouse. Carly took point. Nick stuck close by Deacon; with the excess of blood, he was a ripe target for ghouls or any nearby animals. And probably because he was in a fairly constant danger of passing out on the pavement.

If he’d had more energy, Deacon might’ve told him to watch Carly; she wouldn’t be the one attracting trouble, but she was more vulnerable with only the one functional arm.

As it was, after being surrounded by raiders, having a friendly presence nearby was comforting.

“Gotta say,” Deacon muttered after a block or so, proud that he at least wasn’t slurring, “I’m not looking forward to the _next_ hospital.”

Nick glanced down at him curiously. “Next one?”

“Still gotta get that damn scanner, dunno of anywhere else that would have one.”

“Oh, no,” Nick said with a quick laugh, “no, we got the scanner. Found it in the MRI machine, just like Tom said.”

Deacon rolled that revelation over in his mind briefly before he laughed himself, stumbled, and waved Nick off as one hand shot out to steady him. “Well...not a total waste, then.”

“Could’ve done without the Deathclaw, but that’s the Commonwealth for ya.”

Deacon grunted, blinking hard when his vision swam again. He knew, logically, Ticon wasn’t far from Augusta -- or Kendall, as it was now, Augusta had been gone weeks ago -- but at this point it felt like miles. He also knew that he probably shouldn’t be walking at all in this state, not so soon after losing that much blood. Still, passing out in a safehouse seemed like a much better option than doing it in some abandoned office building.

He didn’t notice himself fall forward right away, just that suddenly his knees stung from where they’d hit the pavement and his stomach was attempting to get rid of something that wasn’t there.

This definitely happened _way_ too often for his liking.

He heard a quick exchange above him past the loud ringing in his ears, and then a much closer, “I got him,” as he was pulled upright, one arm looped around taller shoulders.

The difference in height was familiar from the last time Nick had to half carry him to Ticon, and the irony wasn’t lost even with half of Deacon’s thoughts a hazy mess.

“Gettin’ to be a habit here, detective,” he managed. He could keep his feet moving, at least, even if he wasn’t sure they were moving correctly. “If you wanna pick me up so bad, all you gotta do is ask.”

Nick laughed shortly, his eyes fixed on their path. “Hey, it’s not my fault you keep collapsing in the street, is it?”

“Not my fault either, that fuckin’ lizard…” Deacon felt his head tip forward, and Nick gave him a sharp shake that made it jolt up again.

“Not looking to actually carry you back,” Nick said, even as his right hand waved at something -- probably Carly, she was always overly worried about everything. There was a pause before he spoke up again. “Bruce?”

That got a weary snort. “Dunno if this counts as a break.”

“I’m thinking relatively here.”

Deacon made his eyes roll before conceding. Not that he minded the distraction, because holy _shit_ things were getting fuzzy. The darkness around the edges had been replaced by white, and that was never a promising sign. “Strike one.”

“Paul.”

“Strike two.”

“Murphy.”

“An’ you’re out -- better luck next time.”

It didn’t take them long to get to Ticon, even with Deacon being of little to no help with the process. Usually he would’ve berated Carly for just strolling right up to the door, but as it was he really didn’t want to pass out on the street, and that was getting dangerously close to happening even with the extra support.

There was something surreal about waiting for the elevator as the sun sank toward the horizon and Deacon fought to keep his head up, only upright because Nick was holding him that way.

Not as bad as the last time he’d ended up at this safehouse. At least he was still conscious this time. So far.

“You gonna survive?” Carly asked him, watching the needle above the door bob from side to side.

Deacon grunted, forcing his words out carefully. “Suppose I’ll make it. For now.” He didn’t expect the hard punch to the shoulder and gave her as affronted of a look as he could muster. " _Oww,_ the hell was that for?”

“For scaring me.” She glanced over very briefly, but there was something genuinely open in the look that he wasn’t used to. “No more wandering off alone, deal?”

He considered her for a moment, couldn’t resist a quick glance over at Nick, and then tried to nod. “Deal.”

The elevator ground to a halt in front of them and Deacon wasn’t at all surprised to be met with the barrel of a shotgun when the doors opened. It lowered quickly, and its wielder gave a short, impatient sigh.

“Y’know,” High Rise said, “you are allowed to drop by without major injuries every now and then.” He looked Carly over and drew back a little, obviously surprised. “Is that a -- you fight a Courser?”

Carly gave a weary laugh, glancing down at the uniform and adjusting the straps on her good shoulder.

“We’ve got a bit to catch up on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert the usual "sorry I'm so slow" bit here, because _boy_ that took longer than I thought. My sister was, as usual, wonderful with the editing and pointing out details that added some 700 words.
> 
> Here is my [tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com) thing, come yell with/at me!  
> Also the updated chapter title/general series [playlist](http://bit.ly/2qAlusg) thing
> 
> You are all wonderful and patient and I love each and every one of you, stay in school, eat your vegetables, etc etc


	17. it's a good time for a timeless song

“I’m not saying we start telling her absolutely everything,” Carly said, “just like...the bare basics.”

“The bare basics are risky enough, especially with someone who spreads information for a _living_.” Deacon was careful to keep his eyes on the IV line in his arm, or the various new holes in his jeans. He hadn’t had a conversation without the benefit of reflective lenses in a long time, and he’d started to take them for granted. “Piper’s in the middle of the one place we know the Institute watches constantly, if they even got a hint that she knew something --”

“Nick lives there too,” Carly cut in. “You got to tell _him_.”

She wasn’t wrong. Part of Deacon knew he was fighting a losing battle -- if what she had told him about her job pre-War was true, she had literally argued for a living -- but he still felt compelled to fight anyway. The paranoia hadn’t gotten any less prominent with their latest jaunt into Cambridge.

“That wasn’t really avoidable,” he said, glancing toward the elevator before remembering she could see him do it. “And I got my ass handed to me for it afterwards, Dez was half a step from shooting me herself.”

Any retort was cut off when the door to the stairs swung open, and they both immediately focused on the young woman who came in with a bundle of cloth under one arm. She paused, as if immediately aware she’d interrupted something, before striding across the room to the small bed Deacon was sitting on.

“Got a new shirt,” she said, leaning around enough to check the claw marks down his back. “I dunno if you wanted to try fixing the old one, but you’d need a lot of thread.”

Something in her voice sounded familiar; Deacon had to consider her face a moment longer before it clicked.

“You were here last time I dropped by,” he said. “B6, right?”

She shot him a quick grin, dropping the shirt and what looked like a new sweater at the foot of the bed. “It’s Maddi now,” she told him. “Madison, technically.”

Deacon nodded, part of him wondering if she’d come up with that one herself, or if someone had pulled it from the old park in town.

“It’s been, what,” he inquired, “more than a week? Thought High Rise would’ve had you on a train outta here by now.”

“He was planning on it,” Maddi said. Half of her attention was on a container of somewhat-cleaner rags she’d pulled from under the bed, and the bottle of rubbing alcohol Deacon hadn’t noticed her grab. He tried to ignore that. “G2-15 went to Goodneighbor a couple of days ago, but I decided to stick around. Fidget’s stuck with me, unless someone higher up decides another house needs the manpower more.”

Anything Deacon was about to say turned abruptly into a sharp hiss when she started wiping off the cuts on his back; only a few spots hadn’t fully stitched together yet, but the alcohol made sure he felt every single one of them. Carly picked up his train of thought easily.

“You’re staying with the Railroad?” she asked, and gave an incredulous laugh when Maddi nodded. “Hell, I thought Glory was the only one to do that.”

“Happens on occasion,” Deacon managed to grit out. “Judging by your excellent bedside manner, you’ll fit right in.”

Maddi snorted, leaning back after a moment to inspect her handiwork as Deacon let out a slow breath. “Hey, I’m no doctor -- I’m just one of the few here who can read the first aid books someone picked up.”

“And what, Whistler didn’t wanna see this handsome face? At least she’s gentle.”

“And out on a supply run.” Maddi tugged the IV stand around, checked the blood bag hanging on it. She rolled up a small piece of gauze, pressing it to the small hole left when she pulled the needle out of Deacon’s arm. “Keep pressure on that, keep it elevated.”

He rolled his eyes, bending the arm enough to pin the gauze in place. “Not my first rodeo, kid, trust me. Doubt any of the blood in me is mine anymore.” Carly snorted, and Deacon slid off the bed, grabbing the shirt and shaking it out. “So, am I cleared for duty?”

Maddi just shrugged, rinsing her hands off in a bucket of water in one corner. “I dunno, I’m no doctor. The cuts were pretty shallow, all things considered, so as long as you give the stimpak a bit of time to finish closing things up, you’ll probably be fine.”

“He’d be more fine if he stopped putting himself in front of Deathclaws,” Carly muttered, and Deacon shot her a grin.

“C’mon, Bullseye, what’s life without a little adventure?”

“Statistically, longer.”

Maddi laughed, turning to glance Carly over. The difference in their heights was a bit ridiculous, with Carly below even the Wasteland average, and Maddi on the taller side of the already-tall gen-threes. “I like her,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re the one who killed the Courser, right?”

Deacon could see the very subtle way Carly’s shoulders tightened, but she plucked at the collar of the uniform anyway. “Yeah. That was me.”

“Which one was it, do you know?”

Carly hesitated, and there was a tightness around her mouth now, too. “Z2. That’s all I caught.”

“Z2-47 probably, he was…” Maddi paused, her brow furrowing and jaw clenching briefly. “I mean I think he -- _shit_ , why can’t I remember --”

“It’s the failsafes,” Deacon told her, tugging the new shirt over his head. “Happens to everyone that gets out. They are, unfortunately, pretty damn effective.”

Maddi gave a short, frustrated growl before she spit to one side. “He was a jackass, I know that much. Good riddance. Anyway, if you can take out one of those bastards by yourself, I’m glad we’re on the same side. How’s that shoulder looking?”

Carly rolled it cautiously. “Better. I’ll be fine by the time we get back to headquarters.”

“So long as you don’t break it all over again,” Deacon muttered. He managed to dodge the punch this time, grinned, then turned to grab his rifle. It took a second to remember that the raiders still had it. He sighed, picking up the plasma pistol instead.

“Appreciate the help,” he told Maddi, throwing the intact sweater she’d brought over his shoulder. “Don’t let these guys bully you into all the medical work, huh?”

She scoffed. “Like they could. Fidget’s taking me out to start shooting practice tomorrow. Hoping to tag along on a run soon, actually learn the area.”

Deacon grinned. “Just jumping right into things, aren’t you?”

“Not doing much good sitting around.” Maddi shrugged slightly. “I got out -- now I wanna get others out.” She paused, swung her arms out to the sides, and then turned to the far door. “Stay away from Deathclaws next time -- I think you’re giving High Rise an ulcer.”

Deacon snorted as she walked out, rolled his shoulders forward to test the range of motion. It still wasn’t ideal, but the cuts should be almost entirely healed by the time they left. “That’s nothing new, at least; running a safehouse seems to have made the guy even more paranoid than he already was, he’s really --”

“You’re not off the hook,” Carly interrupted. “I want to tell Piper.”

She was persistent, if nothing else.

Deacon sighed, shoving the pistol in his pocket as best he could, then headed toward the staircase to the upper level. As long as both legs worked properly, he would avoid that damn elevator as much as possible. “Not gonna let that go, huh?”

She shook her head, couldn’t entirely hiding the wince when she reached to grab the door on her way through. “We need all the help we can get, you’ve said so yourself.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean…” Deacon paused, scrubbing a hand over his face. It was strange not having to avoid the sunglasses to do so. “I like Piper just fine, but the liability for everyone involved, _including_ her --”

“If the Institute was going to do something to her, or Nat, they would’ve done it already,” Carly insisted. “I mean, hell, every issue of the Occurrence has some article about those assholes, she’s not exactly staying off the radar.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Deacon told her, a hint of annoyance worming into his tone, “subtlety is something of an important trait.”

“You brought me in,” she pointed out. “I came out of that damn Vault in a bright blue jumpsuit, I’m walking around in a dead Courser’s coat these days, there’s not a hell of a lot about me that’s subtle.”

Deacon couldn’t find a quick reply to that, so he stayed quiet, shoving the door open with one shoulder when they got to the top level. Carly let out a frustrated huff and stepped in front of him, started to cross her arms before thinking better of it, and put one hand on her hip instead. It was times like this, when she was obviously trying to stare him down, that Deacon was reminded of how small the woman was, even by Wasteland standards.

“You’re good at lying,” she stated. “I barely scrape by, it doesn’t come naturally. It was a damn good thing you told Nick when you did, because otherwise, I would’ve let something slip within the week.”

“Like I said.” God, she was persistent. “That wasn’t exactly intentional, he already knew.”

“Yeah. And whose fault do you think that was?” Carly shook her head with another sigh. “It’s bound to slip, alright? I can manage with people I don’t see very often, but I don’t like lying to someone I --” she stopped short. Maybe because she saw Deacon raising an eyebrow. Regardless, she changed course quickly -- “someone I trust.”

Deacon resisted the urge to groan, leaning back against the door they had come through and staring up at the ceiling, partially for the effect, partially because the room still tilted a bit after the exertion of climbing stairs.

He was tempted to ask what would happen if...whatever it was, she and Piper were working toward, didn’t work. What would happen if something came around to make her lose that trust. He didn’t feel like it would be of any help. Carly was set on the idea, and from all he had seen, she wasn’t wrong about letting something slip. That was part of the reason Deacon had agreed to stick with her in the beginning; in passing conversation, she could be as convincing as the rest of them, but after a while, the stories started to get weaker.

Maybe a little bit of damage control would help. Easier to restrict what was revealed, if it was intentional.

It didn’t make him any more confident about the whole thing. The one thing he was confident about was that Carly would end up telling Piper no matter what he said.

“Alright, look,” Deacon said, looking back down to meet her eyes, “it’s like I said before, you’re every bit the agent I am. I’m not your boss, Dez is, so if you think it’s worth the risk, I’m not gonna stop you.” He had to look to the side after a moment -- it was a lot easier to make eye contact when the other person couldn’t see his eyes. He really needed new glasses. “If Dez finds out and is understandably pissed about it, that’s on you.”

Carly considered that, hesitated when an agent passed them on his way down the hall, and finally nodded.

“Just the bare basics,” she repeated. “I know how important secrecy is, I’m not going to give up everything, but...I trust her.”

 _Is that what we’re calling it now?_ If he’d had his glasses, Deacon would have let his eyes roll. Instead, he just nodded, and stepped around her to continue toward the common area.

They had only been in Ticon for a few hours. Deacon had slept for some of it -- others might have called it ‘unconscious’, he prefered ‘sleeping’ -- and Carly had at least rested while the stimpak worked at her shoulder. After solid proof that neither of them were about to abruptly die, Nick had gone to the upper floor, claiming he’d do no good hovering.

There were still a few agents up even with the late hour; it wasn’t surprising that High Rise was one of them. He and Nick were sitting  on one of the old couches in the middle of a conversation, which cut off when Nick looked up. He spotted Deacon and Carly, then lifted one hand in a short wave.

“How is it that I’m the oldest one here,” he said, “but you two are always the ones on bedrest?”

Carly snorted. “I’ve got you beat, at least physically. Think I get a pass for being over 200.”

“And who’s to say how old I am, anyway?” Deacon added. “I may have just aged extremely well. And then gotten a face-change. Or three.” He claimed the last section of the couch, careful to lean forward to keep his back from touching any part of it. “So what’s new, Buzzkill? They officially recruit you and assign a room already?”

“It’s tempting,” High Rise said. “He’s got better stories than you, Dee.”

Deacon clutched a hand to his chest, giving both of them a deeply offended look. “Insulting a man’s profession, High Rise? Now that’s just cold.”

High Rise scoffed. “Ah, you’ve heard worse. You don’t seem to be actively dying anymore -- Maddi do her thing?”

“She’s good,” Carly said. She sat down in one of the smaller chairs, still holding her arm somewhat carefully, but at least not flinching with every movement. “Especially considering she’s been up here, what, a month?”

“One of the first we picked up after everything went to shit.” High Rise glanced down at the floor as if he could pinpoint exactly where she was in the building. “Definitely wasn’t expecting her to stay, though. Pretty sure that was all Nick’s doing.”

“Hey,” Deacon said, elbowing Nick’s arm, “he’s got a codename now, remember? And trust me, it’s an inherent part of this guy’s personality.”

Nick rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother trying to hide the grin. “Okay, one of those things is true.”

“I mean,” Deacon raised an eyebrow with a small, snarky grin of his own, “you’re the one who agreed to the name, you must’ve seen some deeper personal meaning to it.”

“Maybe so,” Nick countered, “and maybe I’ll let you in on that, if you ever let me in on yours.”

High Rise gave a short laugh, leaning back and giving Carly a sympathetic look. “You gotta put up with this kinda thing all the time?” he asked. “I mean, Deacon’s bad enough on his own.”

“I blame you entirely,” Carly told him flatly. “They barely tolerated each other until they took that job of yours.”

Deacon scoffed. “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration -- I get along with everyone.”

“Bullshit,” Nick said immediately, and Deacon pointed an accusing finger.

“Unless they always do _that_. C’mon, High Rise, you don’t have to suffer that on a daily basis.”

“Partially because I don’t lie with every other word,” High Rise pointed out.

Deacon made sure to look offended again, even as Carly snorted a laugh. Nick shot him another grin, and something about it reminded Deacon of the run-down shop they had stopped in, the sudden hug that he hadn’t bothered trying to figure out yet.

A lot of the walk from Kendall to Ticon was hazy, but that much had remained crystal clear.

He pushed the thought away, kept his eyes anywhere but on Nick, because not having the sunglasses made it a little harder to conceal everything.

Something to figure out later.

Maybe.

The conversation turned more serious when Carly made an attempt to bring High Rise up to speed on the basics of what had happened. She didn’t go into specifics about the teleporter, just said they were working on a ‘project’, with Tom’s help.

He was as disappointed and unsurprised as Deacon had been about Augusta’s fate, and suitably impressed by Carly’s success against the Courser. That particular story was very obviously an abridged one. Deacon wondered if she’d ever give up the full one, but it didn’t seem like something to press. He just got the feeling that the synth she’d freed hadn’t been the only other party involved.

Eventually, they had to concede that a few hours of sleep before sunrise would probably make the trip back a lot easier, and retreated to the spare beds. Deacon managed some sleep -- he probably would have managed more if he hadn’t needed to refrain from rolling onto his back the whole time -- and heard Carly jerk awake at least once. He saw the glint of the blade in her hand before she steadied her shaking breath and laid back down.

Nightmares, at least,

_like that look she’d had after killing the raider in the hospital_

were familiar things.

They found Nick on the roof the next morning, along with Fidget, Maddi, and a bag full of tin cans. From what little he saw of it, Deacon figured that Maddi would be a damned good shot, after some practice. If her current attitude kept up through training, he wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up requesting to be a Heavy.

Heavies were definitely something they needed more of. Considering the low numbers, it also wouldn’t be surprising if Glory took on her training. That seemed like something both of them would enjoy.

“Just make sure to watch for the recoil on the bigger guns,” Deacon told her, shot Carly a very brief, sideways look. “Wouldn’t want to break any bones.”

Carly slapped his shoulder lightly, but the fact that she did it with her right arm was encouraging. They were both about as healed as one could hope for before moving out. Deacon knew his cuts would break open if he twisted too quickly, but considering they were just going across the river, he wasn’t terribly worried.

They didn’t linger too long. High Rise gave them a holotape to take to headquarters, and a few small rolls of gauze which, given their very meager medical supplies, was a relief. There were quick goodbyes, mostly on Nick’s part -- his popularity with Ticon as a whole was both amusing and unsurprising -- and then they started back toward the church.

Deacon missed the familiar weight of his rifle the whole way. He missed the sunglasses, both as protection from the bright sun, and an extra layer of anonymity. He missed the weight of the reinforcements his now-destroyed jacket had provided.

The plasma pistol was powerful. Plasma was a bitch and a half to get hit with, and would generally deter anything that wasn’t scaley or completely insane, but it was short-range. He vastly prefered being as far away from things that wanted to kill him as possible. From what little he had seen of them, plasma cells were a hell of a lot more expensive than regular bullets; luckily, that meant the guns themselves were also worth quite a lot, so even if Tom didn’t have any good guns on hand, Deacon was confident that he could trade it for a half-decent replacement wherever they stopped next.

There was a mix of triumph and relief when Carly put the bioscanner on Tom’s desk. He grabbed it immediately, turning the device over in his hands with visible excitement.

“Gonna work perfectly,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “see I can swap out this bit here, convert it to pick up the scans from the main array -- so long as it holds up under the extra power, dunno how much juice went into these things originally…”

Carrington cleared his throat behind them. He inclined his head a little when Carly looked around.

“And Augusta?”

Deacon could see the tension set into Carly’s shoulders, Nick’s hesitation, so he took the initiative, shook his head, resisting the impulse to look over at the chalkboard.

“Hit in the wave,” he said. “Raiders own the place now.”

There was real disappointment in Carrington’s eyes for a moment before he steeled himself again,  looked over at Dez, who was watching the opposite wall intently. She pulled in a slow breath, then nodded.

“Let’s focus on the signal relay,” she told them dully. “We’ve started moving equipment to Mercer and sent out runners for the parts. Glory will be taking Tom up there once there’s enough to start construction.”

Tom nodded briskly, grabbing a stack of papers from a table behind him. Some still had the distinctive crayon drawings Virgil had done, but a good number were filled with much more intricate sketches and scribbled notes in Tom’s looping handwriting. “I’ve been piecing things together,” he said, flipping through the stack. “This Virgil guy, he really knows his stuff -- had to tweak a few bits here and there, y’know, ‘cuz we don’t exactly have some of the tech they’ve got, but it oughta hold up.”

“Ought to, huh?” Carly scoffed lightly, her grin somewhat wary. “I mean, I’m gonna be standing in this thing, what are the odds of it just blowing up?”

The pause wasn’t entirely comforting, but Tom waved it off a moment later. “It’ll work, it’ll work -- just gotta get it wired right, you’ll be good.”

His attention went back to the scanner as he pulled a screwdriver from one pocket and started fiddling with one of the side panels. Dez turned, passing Carrington as she went back to her desk and started pushing through a few papers.

“Right now, we need parts,” she said, as Carly trailed after her. “Got as many runners as we can spare out there, but I imagine you three can search a few of the more dangerous places without as much of a risk.”

“What about --” Nick started, hesitating when everyone else looked at him, and then pushed on. “Are we doing anything about that hospital? They’ve got a damn Deathclaw in there, we’re not just gonna let that go, are we?”

Dez shook her head with a resigned sigh. “Augusta’s gone. If there was any sensitive information left, the Institute’s either found it by now, or they won’t find it at all. Either way, there’s nothing left for us.”

When Nick raised a skeptical eyebrow, she straightened with another sigh, arms folding. “We simply don’t have the resources to risk an attack on something like that, just to clear out some raiders that aren’t posing an immediate threat.”

Nick didn’t look convinced. “They’re a threat to anyone in Cambridge.”

“So is the Institute,” Dez retorted, and her voice had the trademark ‘no arguments’ edge to it. “I’d like to take care of them while we still have the opportunity.”

Deacon could see the altercation brewing. Yet after a moment, Nick seemed to decide it wasn’t a good time for it, and just nodded shortly. Dez went back to the papers, motioning Carly over to the map, pointing out different areas that were likely places to find the parts they needed. Carrington stepped to Deacon’s side and gave him a critical look.

“How has the leg held up?” he asked.

Deacon shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t even notice it. The claw marks, on the other hand…” When Carrington’s eyes narrowed, Deacon laughed shortly. “Kidding, Doc, kidding. They got me back in tip-top-shape back at Ticon, I’m good.”

Carrington didn’t look entirely convinced, but he let the matter go. “I may have a prototype available for testing soon,” he said. “After this relay has finished being built, of course, but given your preferred methods of handling things, we could get an idea of how prolonged use works with the new model.”

“This one gonna give me a rash, too?”

“I maintain that that was not my device, but whatever it was that you dropped it in.”

Deacon snorted. “Either way. So long as I’ll get to keep all my limbs, I’ll give it a whirl for ya.”

Carrington nodded decisively and moved to stand next to Carly, who was watching Dez draw out a map on a scrap of paper. The doctor had never had been one for idle conversation.

Figuring that was as much of a ‘goodbye’ as he was going to get, Deacon took the opportunity to go to his locker, sifting through the mess of clothes and tattered books until he found his spare set of sunglasses. They weren’t mirrored like the last ones, but were dark enough to hide his eyes pretty effectively. A hell of a lot better than nothing.

He put them on before turning, and was a little surprised to find that Nick had followed him. It was likely just for a lack of anything else to do, as Carly was still hunched over Dez’s desk. Nick’s expression was still somewhat skeptical, though, so what came next _wasn’t_ surprising.

“I get that the relay’s important,” Nick said, his voice low, “but I’d think getting rid of a group that’s feeding people to a Deathclaw for sport is kinda big, too.”

Deacon let himself sigh lightly, already a hell of a lot more comfortable now that his eyes were hidden again. “Trust me, I’ll have a grudge against those bastards for a long time, for some _obvious_ reasons, but that’s not what we’re focused on. There will always be raiders; the Institute is something we might actually have a chance of bringing down, after this.”

Nick frowned. “So you agree with her?”

“It’s not that I...” Deacon paused, folding his arms as he searched for the right words. “Look, I understand. We all wish we could sort out every injustice in the ‘Wealth, but the fact of the matter is, we just don’t have the resources. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.”

It wasn’t entirely convincing, mostly because Deacon had his own issues with the idea himself, but Nick didn’t argue. He just stood by while Deacon tried to arrange the pile of things well enough that the locker door would shut again. Once the lock clicked closed, Nick turned a little with the start of a smirk.

“Arthur?”

Deacon sighed, making sure that his eye-roll was as dramatic as possible. “You already guessed like, twelve hours ago.”

“You said whenever we got a break. Never specified how far apart they had to be.”

“Really livin’ up to your name, huh?” Nick just raised an eyebrow, and Deacon snorted. “Fine, strike one.”

“Joseph.”

“Nope.”

“Thomas.”

“Pretty sure I knew some chem-dealer named Thomas, real jackass. Also no.” He clapped his hands together, turning on his heel to go back into the main part of the room. “Thanks for coming, collect your consolation prize at the door.”

Nick chuckled. Something about that was still satisfying, even after this long, and Deacon hid his grin in the large chest where Tom kept the extra guns.

There were no rifles. Both disappointing, and unsurprising. Since Carly had said they were dropping by Diamond City before beginning the scavenging in earnest, he figured he could hold out with the plasma pistol until trading it to Arturo for something better. Given how much plasma weapons went for, he might not even have to shell out any caps for the gun itself.

Good reason to go to the city. Deacon had a strong suspicion that Carly had more in mind than a supply run.

* * *

“I _knew_ it,” Piper hissed. “I mean sure, not _specifically_ , of course, but I **_knew_ ** something was up with you. Caravan guard, my ass.”

The reporter had, at least, waited until they were out of the city the next day to start with the questions, speculations, and even more questions. Deacon wasn’t surprised. He still kept his focus on his new gun -- a smaller hunting rifle with a scope that had definitely seen better days, but it took real bullets. He _liked_ real bullets.

“And _you._ ” She whirled on Nick, spinning around to walk backwards as she scrutinized him. “You’ve been in on this whole thing, too?”

Nick raised his hands defensively, but wasn’t bothering to hide his amusement. “Not for long, promise. These two kept it under wraps until maybe a few weeks ago.”

“Wasn’t exactly intentional, bringing you in,” Deacon muttered. “You were the one who pulled the whole ‘oh yeah, I know all about your secret organization, no big deal’, I mean, honestly…” He took a quick shove to the shoulder for that, and had to resist the urge to retaliate, mostly because Piper was still squinting critically at him.

She had to turn back around after nearly tripping over a bit of loose concrete, and shifted her focus back to Carly. “I mean, holy shit, Blue, with everything you get into, I shouldn’t be surprised. I just wasn’t even sure these guys actually existed, y’know? Always the possibility that it was just some rumor Travis had decided to run with, no one would ever confirm anything.”

“Kinda the point of a secret organization,” Deacon pointed out, giving up on his attempts to clean the scope on his gun, and swung the rifle across his back. “We’re not exactly popular with most people.”

“Sure,” Piper retorted sharply, “because no one actually knows about any of it, if they had the information --”

“No interviews, Piper,” Carly cut in. “Like I said, telling you about this at all wasn’t popular opinion.”

Deacon snorted. “She means I’m paranoid. Which is true.”

“No, no, I get it.” Piper waved one hand idly. “Secrecy and all that, I’m just saying, if people _knew_ …” She trailed off, brow furrowing, then sighed. “I’m not gonna write up a whole issue on it, don’t worry. I don’t want the Institute on my doorstep -- no more than they already are, at least.”

The paranoia didn’t lessen any with that assurance.

Still, Deacon did like Piper well enough. When she wasn’t in ‘intense reporter’ mode, she was generally a cheerful person. Easy enough to get along with, as long as he wasn’t being bombarded with questions.  Although she _had_ been fascinated to find out that he was an actual, real life, Railroad agent at first- most of her attention shifted to Carly after a short time on the road.

Who claimed that bringing Piper along was just logical. They were out to gather parts for Tom, and the more hands to carry it back to Mercer, the better. It did make sense.

It was definitely not the only reason. The smile Carly got while Piper chatted about the latest Diamond City news beside her was not one she ever had with just Nick and Deacon around.

They went to an old electronics store first. Most of what Tom needed was circuitry and wiring -- parts that the runners weren’t going to find lying around on the streets. He claimed that he could manage to jerry-rig practically anything they found to fit the relay with a little work, so it was just a matter of finding it and hauling everything to the safehouse.

Carly tossed a few rocks toward the back of the store before they went in. It stirred up some dust, clattered a bit further than expected, but nothing hungry or violent jumped out of the darkness. The Pip-Boy’s light revealed a large hole where the floor had caved into the basement, and there was a lot of caution walking across the remaining wood. There were a lot of dark corners, at least one staircase that looked like it went up to a small office, but again, nothing was jumping out to attack them. That was generally a good sign.

“Just hope those assholes in the tin cans haven’t scraped the place clean,” Carly muttered, jiggling the handle of a locked door before moving on to look over the rest of the area. “I doubt we'll have much luck anywhere in the Cambridge area, probably been picked over already.”

“You know much about them?” Piper asked. “Everyone saw that blimp fly in, and they have a group at that police station, but no one’s gotten any good intel yet.”

Carly shrugged, nudging a box to the side to squint under an overturned set of shelves. “Haven’t met any myself, but if the stories are true, they aren’t doing much in the way of protection. More like harassment.”

“Just what this place needs,” Nick said with a quiet scoff, “more people who think they have the only right way of doing things -- especially when they’ve got the guns to back their words up.”

“Everyone thinks they’ve got the right way,” Piper stated. “Just don’t usually use a giant blimp to make the point.”

They all stopped immediately when papers shifted in one corner, and Carly turned to point with both her pistol and her light. The radroach was a small one, relatively speaking, and it scurried through a crack in the wall the instant the light hit it. Unless it was somehow going to fetch an entire horde of roaches, probably not a real threat.

Most of the usable electronics had been stripped from the main part of the store. There were a few scraps of metal, and Carly pocketed a few screws she pulled loose, seemingly unsurprised as she muttered something about ‘looters’. There was a brief debate about whether to try the upper or lower floor first, and continued wariness of how stable the basement was won out in the end. The stairs up to the office weren’t much better, in retrospect, but nothing collapsed under their feet, and Carly got the door open after only a few hard pushes.

“Think we can haul an entire Handy back?” she asked, nudging one of the prone robots with her foot. “Feel like Tom would enjoy an assistant.”

“Tom would gut it,” Deacon told her flatly, circling the desk. The terminal still looked functional, but after one too many stories of people rigging them to explode, he was always wary. “Probably be worried it was somehow spying on him. If you wanna drag that much steel yourself, be my guest.” He tapped one of the terminal keys cautiously, taking a step back as it started whirring to life, the internal fan sending out a puff of dust. It took a minute for anything to come up, but he wasn’t entirely surprised when the ending result was the blinking cursor of a login screen. Deacon looked over his shoulder to where Nick was sifting through an old filing cabinet. “What do you think, Buzzkill, can you get this fossil to cooperate?”

Nick snorted as he turned, coming to peer at the glowing screen. “What, because I am one?”

Deacon grinned. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

There wasn’t much on the terminal -- a few office memos, shipping records, and the option to turn the robots to “demo mode” which everyone present agreed was a terrible idea. With all other options exhausted, they faced off against the hole in the floor.

“Probably collapsed later on,” Carly reasoned, crouching over the dark void as she tried to angle her light to see further into the darkness, with little success. “Not something the initial looters would’ve gotten to.”

“There have been scavvers for the past two centuries, though,” Deacon said, keeping a wary hand on his rifle’s strap. He really needed to get a short-range weapon on top of it, but the plasma pistol had barely covered the new gun. Should’ve just grabbed one of the sub-par pipe pistols Tom kept on hand. “Might just be more dust.”

Carly grunted, standing straight again. Deacon noticed her rubbing her collarbone and wondered just how healed it really was, before she turned toward the other two.

“What do you think?”

Piper scoffed lightly. “Well, the last time I was in a hole in the ground with you and Nick, we had to negotiate with a bunch of mobsters, so…” She shrugged, flashing Carly a grin. “Can’t be worse, right?”

Carly gave a conceding shrug, then nodded once at Nick. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any old friends down there?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Nick said. “At least, we can be pretty certain that no one else has been looking for parts to make a teleporter.”

“Only pretty certain, though.” Carly frowned down at the hole for another few seconds, before shrugging her bag from her shoulders. “Can’t hurt to look.”

Deacon thought there was the distinct possibility that it _could_ hurt, but she was already sitting at the edge, left arm twisted to get the meager Pip-Boy light as far down as possible. She then slid forward, dropping out of sight. The other three immediately stepped closer, Piper looking slightly worried, Nick, just resigned.

“Anyone know why the shortest one went into the giant hole first?” Deacon muttered. The shadows below them shifted, and the green glow came back into view, blocked momentarily when Carly stuck her hand in front of it to pointedly flip him off.

“Maybe because the shortest one’s got the only light,” she said. “Shut the hell up and get down here.”

The drop to the pile of rubble wasn’t as far as it looked. Deacon stumbled when he landed on a piece of plywood that tried to slide his feet out from under him. He had to wave off Nick’s immediately raised hand, aiming to steady him, hopping down to a more stable block of concrete.

“Leg still holding up?” Nick asked.

Deacon rolled his eyes. “You gonna carry me back to Ticon if it’s not?”

He heard Carly groan to his left, and she sounded like she was turned away from him, probably toward Piper. “You see what I’ve gotta deal with? Feel like a chaperone, I swear…”

Deacon threw out a blind elbow, barely managed to graze her arm, and Carly shoved him back with a quick laugh. It turned into a quiet curse when she stumbled over the uneven floor, and she moved forward immediately, trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.

There were, surprisingly, still supplies in the basement. Probably not as many as there had been before scavvers hit the place, but enough that it felt like a good find. It took a few minutes for Deacon’s eyes to adjust to the darkness enough that he could do much beside fumble around the shelves, but soon enough, he and Piper were able to step away from Carly’s light and start picking apart whatever machinery that wasn’t buried in rubble.

He wasn’t great with tech, but knew enough to get by, enough to know how to pull out the pieces they needed without snapping them in half. There was no telling just how much of everything they’d need, considering there were runners scouring the ‘Wealth just like they were, but it was always better to be over-prepared. Especially when building something like a teleporter.

After all the near-death experiences, this sort of seemingly-mundane work was kind of a nice change.

Not that Deacon would ever admit it out loud.

They’d stripped at least three terminals and half of a broken Protectron by the time he took a smoke break. The worst injury sustained so far was to his dignity, when an unexpected shock from a stray wire had earned a surprised yelp, but he’d seen much worse.

The sun was nearly set, stretching long shadows from the taller buildings to the south. The chill in the air was sure to get worse once night actually fell, but Deacon figured it was survivable. He slid down the wall, stretching his legs in front of him and digging through his pockets for a lighter.

He was halfway through the cigarette when the door opened. Deacon looked up in time to see Carly pause, her nose wrinkling for a second, before she apparently ignored the smell and sat down to his right.

“Slacking off, Bullseye?” he asked, and she snorted.

“Always. Gotta save the grunt work for you, right?”

“Obviously.”

It was quiet for a few moments. Deacon snuffed the cigarette out on the concrete, glancing over when Carly rolled her shoulders in what might have been a shrug.

“Not exactly a huge fan of being underground for long, either,” she said. “Basement or not, gets a little too...cramped. Besides, Piper’s catching Nick up on all of the gossip he’s missed, and I still know all of...two people in that town.”

Deacon scoffed, nodding. “Yeah, I can see that.” He leaned back, head rolling to the side as he gave her a smirk. “So how’s that going, anyway?”

“What, learning names?” When that just got a raised brow, she narrowed her eyes at him before looking pointedly forward. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Right,” Deacon said with a hint of a laugh, “so that’s either blatant denial, **or** you’re just stubbornly blind.”

Carly made a noise of disbelief, twisting to look at him incredulously. “ _Seriously_ , Dee? You the pot or the kettle?”

“You’ve brought that up before, what the hell does that even --”

“ _I’m_ the blind one?” she continued, undeterred. “Honestly, I thought you’d started paying attention after whatever the hell that attitude was in the Sea, but even High Rise is asking me about it now.”

Deacon thought his look of confusion was pretty convincing. It was hard to say when he was also working to convince himself. “Asking you about what?”

Carly just watched him for a moment longer, then snorted, shaking her head as she turned away again. “Yeah, I’m the blind one.”

It took some doing not to think too much about that, and he focused instead on watching the area in front of the building for any kind of potential threat. Wasn’t being blind if there was nothing to see. Not denial, because there was nothing to deny.

Dammit, he was never quite as good at lying to himself.

They were quiet for a few minutes. Carly kept tapping her pistol’s grip before catching herself, only to start up again after a short pause. The wind picked up a little; they would’ve probably gotten a face full of dust if the ground wasn’t still damp from the last rain. As long as it didn’t start snowing, Deacon felt he couldn’t complain much.

“You think this is going to work?” Carly spoke up suddenly, and he glanced at her with a questioning look.

“What’s going to work?”

She waved one hand vaguely. “The teleporter, this whole…’breaching the Institute’ plan. We’ve got a shot,” a  note of pleading came into her voice, as though he could make it happen with a word, “right?”

Deacon considered that, and for once, it was nice to be able to tell the truth. “Yeah.” He nodded once. “I think we do.”

Carly nodded as well. She let out a slow breath, all of the previous levity suddenly gone. “What’s gonna happen after that?”

When Deacon just gave her a questioning look, she shrugged helplessly.

“You know…” She took a steadying breath, “I get in there, find Shaun, get him out somehow...then what?” There was that pleading tone again. “I’m barely surviving out here, myself. What help can I be to him?”

He had to hesitate. This was definitely not the kind of conversation he was good at, but it also wasn’t one he knew how to prudently back out of. “You seem to have done pretty well so far.”

“I’ve survived,” she repeated, “and just barely, most of the time. There’s a difference between ‘surviving’ and actually _living_ , and I don’t…” Carly swallowed. Her voice was still steady, but her hands weren’t. “I don’t know, I guess there’s some part of me that thinks I’ll get Shaun back, and we’ll be able to... ** _go_ ** back, somehow. Back before the world blew up. That’s obviously not happening, but…” Now the waver was creeping into her tone as well. “I don’t know how to raise a kid here.”

Deacon wasn’t sure why she had come to him with this, of all the people available. He wasn’t good with comforting people or giving advice that didn’t have to do with staying alive. There still wasn’t an easy way to back out.

“Shaun’ll be fine,” he told her after a moment of contemplation. “Kids are tough, they adapt, and it’s not like he’s spent every second underground, right? He was up here with Kellogg for a while.”

Probably not helpful. Maybe should have gone with something that didn’t bring up the guy she’d practically torn to pieces. After a pause, he reached out, albeit somewhat warily, for her hand. She didn’t pull away, so Deacon gave it a quick squeeze. The ring she still wore was cold on his palm, and judging by the way some of the tension left Carly’s shoulders, it hadn’t been the wrong move.

“Either way, you won’t be doing it alone,” Deacon said, shooting her what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “You’re one of us, Bullseye, and we’ve got a pretty good track record of looking after our own.”

Carly mulled that over, and though she didn’t look entirely convinced, it seemed the conversation had helped. She nodded, sighing again, and her head dropped to rest on Deacon’s shoulder. They stayed quiet after that, watching the shadows grow as the sun sank lower.

Deacon still wasn’t entirely sure when the whole situation had shifted from waiting outside that Vault on a hunch, trying to convince Dez that his following ghosts would be beneficial for the Railroad in the long run, to something that felt a lot more personal.

Apparently this was having friends.

It had, admittedly, been a while.

* * *

They stayed the night in the store, using the extra time to rearrange the supplies into whatever bags they could dig up. The load was heavier than expected, and traipsing around the Commonwealth with what probably looked like a lot of valuable supplies -- whether they actually were valuable or not didn’t matter to raiders looking for a score -- didn’t seem like the best idea.

“Mercer’s not far,” Carly said, as she tried to arrange the pieces so they wouldn’t dig into her back through the bag. “I figure they’ve at least started setting things up there by now, we can get a better idea of how much more they need before heading out again.”

Piper wasn’t subtle about her immediate interest, and Deacon was glad Mercer hadn’t had the chance to be an operating safehouse before being repurposed. He might like Piper just fine, but he wasn’t sure how much her self control would stretch to avoid interviewing newly escaped synths. It would be tough enough to keep her on any semblance of Dez’s good side.

They left the dormant robots to their business and started north. It wasn’t a far trip, but Deacon knew Glory would be clearing the more obvious dangers to the east of the boathouse, so this particular stretch probably wouldn’t have been touched yet. It wasn’t like any part of the road was perfectly safe; that, combined with the extra weight, made a slower pace advisable for multiple reasons.

Granted, only three out of the four of them were really affected by the weight. Nick had two bags of scavenged goods, along with his usual gear, and was moving as easily as ever. It seemed a little unfair.

The bridge was more intact than Decon would have thought. He had heard that this was a well-traveled route, but most bridges had a good deal of metal sheets or plywood across the holes to make them useable. This one was cluttered, old cars and debris everywhere, but its distinct lack of damage was impressive.

“Always hated driving in this area.” Carly did a quick sweep through her rifle’s scope before they were fully in the open. There usually weren’t any pockets of terrible things in this particular area, but being overcautious kept people alive. “The traffic was terrible, something about the lights backed everything up for like, two blocks.”

“What, the cars?” Piper asked, and raised an eyebrow when Carly nodded. “How’s a light control cars?”

“Y’know, it was…” Carly waved a hand vaguely at the road. “Traffic control, making sure no one just went barreling through an intersection. Not that it stopped some idiots. But it always felt kind of ironic, all those models advertised for speed, all stuck sitting in morning rush hour.”

Piper scoffed, stepping around to Carly’s other side. It wasn’t immediately obvious why, until she pulled out a cigarette; Deacon realized she had moved to be downwind so the smoke would blow away from them. “What’s that got to do with a light?” Piper still wanted to know.

There was some attempt at an explanation that Deacon didn’t pay much attention to as they got onto the main road. He kept an eye on the riverbank, squinting even through the sunglasses past the sun’s reflection on the water. At least there was sun at all, and the wind had died down to the occasional strong breeze. They’d probably get some snow before the month was out, but he’d prefer that refrain as long as possible.

Carly paused at the start of the bridge long enough to toss a rock into some of the thicker debris. It bounced off of something metal, and nothing came scurrying or stumbling toward them, so they pressed on.

Deacon had assumed the small puddles were from the rain, collected in the lower parts of the asphalt, and just a little too deep to have evaporated yet. He didn’t notice the sheen on the top until an ember from Piper’s cigarette fell into the middle of one.

He also didn’t notice that some of the metal containers were oxygen tanks or gas canisters until they were all shying quickly away from the sudden burst of flame, arms raised instinctively to shield their eyes.

Experience told him they were far enough back, that even if there were mines or gas tanks somewhere in the rubble, any shrapnel would probably be going too slow to do any significant damage.

The sudden chain of explosions made that a little harder to believe.

Whoever had rigged the bridge had obviously been looking to do a hell of a lot of damage. It took at least a minute for the last canister to explode, and Deacon was cautious letting his arm drop. A few tiny shards of either metal, maybe concrete, had hit hard enough to hurt, but nothing had torn through any of his clothes.

There was a sudden quiet, the river running below like nothing had happened, and a few larger pieces of metal settling into place again. Their quickened breathing sounded a whole lot louder.

“ _Assholes_ ,” Piper muttered behind him eventually. Her voice wavered a little, but she had her gun at the ready, looking for anyone who might’ve been drawn in by the noise. “What the hell is that supposed to accomplish? Wouldn’t even be a body left to loot.”

“Might be keeping people from coming into their territory,” Nick said. “Pretty decent deterrent, I haven’t heard anything about what’s over there these days.”

Carly sighed, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “Definitely assholes. We’ll have to get them away from Mercer eventually, keep an eye out.”

She led the way forward again, Deacon keeping a close eye on the remaining rubble for any further surprises. Mines were a little harder to defend against than people most of the time, and he wasn’t looking to get blown up today.

Somehow, he missed the large cracks in the pavement near the center of the bridge. They didn’t seem at all important until Carly suddenly dropped out of sight with a loud yelp, and almost immediate splash.

There was a chorus of panicked shouts, and the other three rushed to the edge of the new hole, staring down at the water a few yards below. Piper dropped her bag after a few seconds, clearly ready to dive in herself, but Carly popped up before she got the chance, sputtering indignantly.

Deacon heard the calls on either side of him, the immediate questions to make sure she hadn’t somehow died without them noticing, but his reaction was a little different:

“Get your gun out of the water!”

She managed to oblige, pausing long enough to heft the pistol up, and he could see her trying to angle the rifle above the waterline. She also turned back toward the bridge to throw a quick, “Fuck you too, Dee!” over her shoulder.

That was enough assurance for him that she was fine.

They met her on the opposite shore, greeted by profuse swearing and the quiet ticking of the geiger counter on her Pip-Boy.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Nick asked, while Piper dug through her bag, pulling out a relatively clean rag that Carly started drying her hair with. “That was a hell of a drop.”

“I’m good,” she assured them, grimacing once, then turning to spit to one side. “ _D_ _isgusting_ now, but the water was deep, and I swim well.”

“I’d say,” Deacon said. “All that gear, that’s not light -- you could’ve dropped the scrap, we can find more.”

Carly just shrugged, pulling the rifle off her shoulder and pulling the bolt back experimentally. It was dripping, but with any luck, they were just looking at a waste of gunpowder. “It was fine, hit the shore pretty quick -- I’m _good_ , Piper, I swear.”

Piper blinked, freezing in the midst of her restless hovering. After a moment, she let out a quick breath.

“You’re sure?” she asked, and after Carly nodded in affirmation, she bit her bottom lip, voice a little strained. “So...can I laugh now?”

That got a surprised look, but then Carly snorted, waving one hand as she swung the gun onto her back again. “Give me your worst, Wright.”

She was trying hard not to grin at Piper’s peal of laughter, setting off down the road with a stubborn set to her shoulders. It probably would have been smart to stop for a while, light a fire and get her properly dried out, but Deacon knew as well as she did how close they were to their goal, and Mercer would have a lot more shelter than the riverbank did.

“I’m sorry,” Piper gasped, one hand on Carly’s shoulder, “I really am, it was my fault with that damn cigarette, but you looked so much like an angry wet cat --”

“You ever actually seen a wet cat?” Carly demanded.

“I’m a reporter, I’ve seen a lot of things, and _boy,_ do I wish I’d had my camera.”

Deacon shot a look over at Nick, swinging one arm out a little in a _you see this shit?_ gesture. Nick just snorted, stepping closer.

“They’ll figure it out,” he muttered. “Just leave ‘em to it.”

Deacon rolled his eyes, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. There was still a decent chance of encountering unexpected pocket of raiders, or something equally nasty, and Carly certainly wasn’t paying attention, so he figured he’d watch the area for both of them.

Kind of reminded him of following her to Diamond City the first time. At least she was slightly more capable at this point. At least now, she knew he was there.

Mecer wasn’t far, and they could see the main house after less than twenty minutes. Carly was actively shivering, but her pace hadn’t slowed, any and the prospect of being able to drop all of the scrap was an inviting one, so Deacon didn’t say anything.

“My boss probably won’t be too happy,” Carly was saying. “I’m not exactly supposed to just tell whoever I want about all of this, so just let me do the talking, all right?”

Deacon felt a sense of deja vu as Piper nodded. “I’ll behave,” she replied, “promise. No interviews, as _useful_ as they might be…”

Carly scoffed, using it to hide a slightly stronger shiver. “Maybe one day. For now, let’s just try to keep her from excommunicating us. They don’t actually know my name,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “I’m Bullseye to everyone here, so stick to that if you can.”

Piper nodded again, eying the buildings as they approached. There was already a pile of sheet metal stacked on the edge of the road, a few people working on flattening more of it to one side. Deacon recognized a few of the runners, though not the one who straightened abruptly from his spot against a tree, leveling a shotgun at them.

“Private property,” he snapped. “Move along.”

Deacon sighed, stepping forward with his hands outstretched. “What, none of you lot need a geiger counter?”

That gave the kid a pause as he glanced between the four of them quickly. “You...got one?”

“Afraid you’re out of luck, it’s in the shop.” His hands fell, and Deacon pushed forward toward the house. “We’re on the same side, buddy, gotta remember to give them a chance for the countersign.”

He heard Carly snort quietly, saw Nick pat the kid’s shoulder in passing, ignoring the slightly disgruntled look that earned. There were a few people on the porch, and Deacon recognized the hulk of the minigun before anything else.

“Slackin’ off here, huh, Glory?” he called. “Thought you were supposed to be clearing like, a ten mile radius around the place.”

Glory snorted even before she turned, arms folded across her chest. “Hey, you wanna go out there and do it yourself, be my guest. I don’t think you’re--” Her expression fell into a heated glare. “The hell is the reporter doing here?”

Well, that didn’t take long. Piper tensed, and Carly put a hand on her arm briefly before letting her bag fall from her shoulder to her hand.

“She’s helping us out,” Carly’s tone was placating, definitely an old instinct from her ‘before everything went to shit’ job. “I know Dez will give me an earful, but right now? I’m damp, I’m freezing, and I want to get this damn coat off.”

Glory’s eyes narrowed slightly. After a moment, she nodded, and Deacon noticed that she picked up her gun again when she followed them inside the small house. They dropped the bags of scrap in one corner where there was already a pile of circuit boards and rolls of wire. There was a fire lit on the small patio that probably used to have intact windows; the large holes in the wall and smaller ones in the roof didn’t let the smoke gather in the house itself, but also didn’t let anything beyond the immediate area to get any warmer.

Carly fumbled with the clasps of the coat as Glory called up the staircase for Dez. It looked like the coat itself had dried already, but the clothes underneath definitely hadn’t. She was standing as close to the fire as she could, leaning over and muttering something in Piper’s ear when Dez came down.

“I swear,” Dez muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose and squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, “I can’t send you two out for more a day without one of you trying to recruit someone.”

Deacon clapped his hands together, flashing a grin at the room as a whole. “And that’s my cue. Let me know if anyone’s fired, promoted, whatever, I’ll be outside.”

“Deacon --”

“This one isn’t on  me, boss. Promise.” He waved a hand vaguely as he turned. “For the record, I don’t see _that_ many issues with the idea. But it _was_ her idea.”

He was out the door before anyone could protest further. It wasn’t even noon yet, but what the slight breeze was chilled, making Deacon pulled his coat tighter around him. The sunlight dimmed, and he shot a glare up at the clouds. The edges were getting grey, and he really didn’t want to deal with snow just yet.

Part of the conversation behind him drifted through the door, but he didn’t bother listening in. Carly was very convincing, he had no doubt she’d talk her way through it and bring Dez at least to the very edge of her side. At least enough that Piper wouldn’t be shot for seeing too much.

There really had been a lot of spontaneous recruitments lately, though. Probably wasn’t great for security.

At least _one_ of them had earned as much trust as Deacon managed these days.

Professionally, of course.

He kept from looking back at the house, where he knew Nick was leaning against the door frame just inside, and headed over to where Tinker Tom had pulled a few pieces of larger metal together near the edge of the road.

He didn’t look back, because he was a damned _professional_.

They weren’t at Mercer more than a few hours; enough time for Carly to dry off and get lectured, and for all of the scrap they had found to be sorted into something resembling organized piles. Tom didn’t give them any more very specific things to find -- the rest of the materials were all standard electronic scrap that could be found anywhere the looters hadn’t hit too hard. It was just a matter of getting enough.

Piper wasn’t exactly given the all-clear with Dez; Carly had been given strict instructions not to reveal anything more than the immediate project, which she’d grudgingly agreed to. Piper didn’t seem to mind. Getting even a very basic access to the Railroad was apparently thrilling.

Collecting parts wasn’t particularly exciting work, but the potential payoff was more than enough to keep Deacon from complaining too loudly. They stayed in the city for the most part, dropping things off at Mercer when the bags started to get too heavy. It got steadily easier to reach the safehouse as Glory expanded her radius of control around it; even the Super Mutants were wary after she took out two different camps singlehandedly.

“How’s HQ doing, though?” Deacon asked her at one point, while Tom rifled through their latest haul. “Not like we’re gonna set up shop out here or something.”

She waved him off casually. “It’s fine, I check in every few days. And before you ask,” she added when Deacon opened his mouth again, “I’ve made sure it’s not common knowledge that Dez is here. Drummer collects any reports that come in, the runners all just assume she’s in the basement, like usual.”

Deacon let himself look a little impressed. “Might be wasting your talents on this heavy nonsense,” he said, “you’d be good with intel.”

“Ugh,” Glory snorted, though she flashed him a quick grin as she turned back toward the house, “take it back.”

It took a little less than a week for Tom to be satisfied. There was some excess at the end, but that made sense -- better to have some margin for error when building something this complicated. He already had a lot of the larger chunks hammered out, starting to resemble the rough drawings Virgil had given them.

“Can’t believe we’re building a damn _teleporter_ ,” Piper said, circling the metal that would probably turn into the base of the thing. “I mean, it figures those assholes can teleport, everything makes way more sense knowing that, and if everyone _else_ knew…”

“No articles, Piper,” Carly told her firmly. “We need to keep the whole ‘covert’ thing going a while longer.”

Piper sighed, giving her a slightly wistful look. “Afterward? When everything’s done?”

“Full access,” Carly smiled, “I promise.”

They had to step to one side quickly as Tom rushed past with a box full of something metal, his goggles crooked on his face, a piece of paper between his teeth.

Deacon wasn’t sure he wanted to know the last time the kid had slept.

“All that’s left is detail work,” Tom told them, dropping the box and holding the paper up to squint at it. “Y’know, wiring, coding -- Junction got a pretty sweet terminal dragged in, been goin’ a lot faster with that hooked up to the generator. Gotta make sure to iron out as many kinks as we can, somethin’ tells me we’re not gonna get a test run with this baby.”

“Any idea on a timeline?” Nick asked, and Tom’s eyes snapped over like he’d forgotten he had an audience. “Some complicated stuff here,” Nick pressed, “we looking at a few days, or a month?”

Tom pulled a face, turning to eye the metal scraps again critically. “Got most of the basics from Virgil already, just a matter of getting everything connected and making sure it’s all talkin’ to each other like it should…” He shrugged once. “Week, maybe. Give or take.” A pause. “Probably.”

Carly grunted, tearing her eyes away from the set-up to look around the small property. “Alright, so what are we supposed to do for a week? I think I’d be pretty useless actually setting this thing up, I’m not exactly...hey, Dez!” She gestured at Tom as Dez looked up from the porch. “Tinker here says we’ve got all the parts, what’s next?”

The pause bordered on uncertain. Dez eventually folded the papers she held with a sigh, leaning on the railing to look the small group over. “Almost everyone else is going back to their normal duties,” she said. Her tone was brisk, contradicted only slightly by the tired slump in her shoulders. “I’d like to do the same for you, God knows there’s plenty of work that needs to be done, but given just how damn important this infiltration is going to be…” Another short pause, and she shook her head once. “We can’t risk not having you ready when this thing is built.”

“So you’re gonna ground us, aren’t you?” Deacon asked snidely. That got a half-hearted glare.

“I’m telling you to take a break. Ordering you to,” the look didn’t decrease by a single degree, “if that’s what it takes. We’ll need you at your best, so catch your breath.” She gave Deacon a  singularly pointed stare. “ _All_ of you. I’ll send a runner to Diamond City if Tom finishes early. Otherwise, just be back in a week.”

Deacon let his head roll back briefly as he restrained a groan, turning away. “Because I do great with breaks,” he muttered, hearing Carly snort behind him. “C’mon, Dez, there’s gotta be some quick intel I can get, **_something_**.”

She gave him another heated look. “This is priority right now. Best case scenario, Bullseye gets in and out within an hour or two, and we hit the ground running. You want to risk doing that with a new bullet wound?”

Technically, she was right. Deacon wasn’t eager to admit that out loud.

After a long, tense moment, Nick nudged his arm. “C’mon,” he said, glowing eyes resting on Deacon for a few seconds before he glanced between Carly and Piper. “I should probably be at the agency for more than five minutes at a time for once, give Ellie a break. Dinner’s on me.”

Piper grinned, hands swinging out in mock defeat. “That’s enough motivation for me. Dugout, though, no skimping with just noodles.”

Deacon didn’t have much choice but to follow as they headed south again. Not like it was a bad thing, his inherent loner tendencies had faded just enough to be almost used to this weird little group. Not to say he didn’t take the opportunity to do a perimeter check alone once in awhile, or slip off for a smoke, but there wasn’t a _constant_ desire to bug out and return to his usual life in the shadows.

That, in and of itself, was weird.

The only resistance they met on the way back to the city was a small pack of ghouls, lurking in a rundown shack. There was enough advanced warning that none of them got close enough to prove a real threat--more a waste of bullets. The few Super Mutant camps that Diamond City Security hadn’t managed to take care of were easy to spot, easier to avoid.

The worst trouble was the distant rumbling thunder accompanying the thickening clouds, but even those weren’t breaking open yet. Deacon was half expecting the city to be on fire when they reached it, just to even things out.

It wasn’t, of course, even if the telltale smoke from the Bobrov’s dinner rush made it smell that way.

Piper split off to drop her things in her house, and likely to assure Nat that she was still alive. Nick did the same when they reached the alley leading to the inn.

“Vadim knows I’m good for it,” he said. “He should, recruits nearly half of my clients. I’ll be there in a few minutes, just gotta make sure my place hasn’t burned down.”

“Sure you’re not flaking on us, Valentine?” Deacon asked, a teasing note in his voice. “I was promised food, I don’t take that lightly.”

Nick just snorted, giving a vague wave and a grin as he turned toward Third Street. Deacon felt Carly shove him forward a little, and she didn’t bother trying to hide her massive eye-roll.

“Holy shit,” she muttered, “you are so _obvious_ …”

He didn’t dignify that with any response, at least, not more than a quick glare, as he held the door to the Dugout open for her.

The inn was always busy for dinner, even moreso this time of year, when it was too cold to sit outside. Vadim welcomed them with his usual booming voice, and Deacon was grateful that everyone else in the room was accustomed to that sort of thing, and didn’t immediately inspect any newcomers.

Or, at least, most of them didn’t. He could see a few people give them a once-over, a common threat assessment that he expected from any mercs. A couple of them narrowed their eyes, probably wary of Carly--and if they knew anything at all about Coursers, that was expected- but if they _did,_ they also knew enough to not challenge one.

Either way, they got a table uncontested.

Piper came in not long afterward, telling them that Nat was spending the evening with Nina at Arturo’s place. Nick had brought Ellie along when he showed up. Vadim was always good about keeping drinks full, even during the busiest rushes, and about half an hour and a mirelurk steak later, Deacon realized that this was definitely the most relaxed he’d been in weeks.

He was still keeping an eye on the room, keeping track of who came and went, but those sorts of habits were hard-set. Piper was surprisingly good at not straying near any talk of the Railroad, and he didn’t really worry about Carly accidentally spilling to anyone in idle conversation anymore. They might still be scraping for whatever they could get, but hell, Tinker Tom was in the process of building a real, _working_ teleporter to get them into the Institute itself.

It was way more than they’d had in a hell of a long time, way more than Deacon had let himself expect when he started staking out Vault 111.

He’d let himself worry about not worrying enough later.

At the very least, a week, when the whole thing would be in even more immediate danger of crashing down around them.

It was just nearing the end of the usual dinner hour when the door opened again, and Deacon knew he and Vadim weren’t the only ones to notice these particular newcomers. Even Vadim’s greeting was a little hesitant, which made sense; it seemed unlikely that he served many people sporting full suits of power armor.

One of them was, anyway; the other had on the usual Brotherhood combat armor over the garishly orange jumpsuit. He was dwarfed by his companion, who barely managed to fit through the small hallway into the main room. They both paused as nearly everyone turned to stare for a moment.

The suited one stayed near the entrance while the guy in the jumpsuit strode up to the bar, trying hard to look like he was ignoring the multiple eyes on his back. He leaned across the bartop to speak to Vadim, voice low, and Deacon just barely managed not to tense when Vadim pointed at their table. Carly wasn’t quite as subtle, one hand going to rest on her pistol, before Piper reached over to pull it away forcibly.

The man looked over at them, eyes narrowing ever further, turned back to Vadim with some hurried muttering. Deacon could just make out his curse when Vadim insistently pointed again.

Deacon stood automatically when the guy moved toward them, but all of the attention seemed to be on Nick. Not too surprising, given their apparent attitude toward synths.

“I’ve been told…” There was a grimace like something foul was under his nose, and he pulled his eyes onto Deacon. “Apparently this is the...detective?”

“Nick Valentine,” Nick spoke up, evenly meeting the affronted look that snapped back over to him. “Got a sign with my name on it and everything. Who’re you?”

Apparently, even _speaking_ directly to a synth caused some kind of deep internal pain.

Deacon hated this guy already.

“Knight Rhys, Brotherhood of Steel.” Like that hadn’t been obvious. “My intel didn’t mention…”

“They usually don’t,” Deacon interrupted. He felt Ellie’s hand on his arm, pulling him back into his chair, and relented after a moment. “But if you lot got a problem with Nick, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna have to take it up with the entire town.”

Rhys just shook his head, eyes closing for a few seconds, like he was trying to build up the will to keep talking. “No, _civilian,_ we’re not interfering with regular city affairs. My commander wants to…” he hesitated again, before managing to spit out the last two words with unmistakeable disgust. “-Hire you.”

That got as close to a shocked silence as Deacon had heard in the Dugout, which only proved that the entire bar was listening in. Eventually, Nick stood, and Rhys looked like he was holding his ground through a whole lot of willpower, even despite Nick having a good six inches of height on him. Nick didn’t bother to fully hide the slight smirk when he held out a hand -- he was nice enough to at least make it his left -- and also didn’t look at all surprised when Rhys ignored it.

“I’m off the clock for the night,” he said, hand dropping to his side, “but you and your friend are welcome to drop by the agency tomorrow morning. Down Third Street, bright neon sign, you can’t miss it.”

The thought of staying the night in Diamond City on purpose looked painful. Rhys finally nodded, turning abruptly on his heel and weaving back through the tables to his companion at the door with a hissed, “I swear, Forsythe, if I learn you set me up for this…”

Nick sat back down once the door closed behind them, and the chatter of the bar resumed almost immediately. Their table was quiet for a minute, and then Piper gave a low whistle.

“Got the damn Brotherhood lookin’ to hire you now, Nicky?” She shook her head with an incredulous laugh. “Not sure if that’s flattering or not.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” Nick said flatly, watching the door for a moment longer before he turned back to the table. “Probably something too menial for their own troops to handle; we’ll see what they’re asking tomorrow, decide whether or not to even bother taking it.”

“Not sure they’re the kind of people you want to start rejecting straight off the bat,” Ellie pointed out. “They haven’t really intruded on  the city yet, but something tells me they could start some real trouble if they feel like it.”

Carly snorted sharply. “They’re already causing trouble, just not with any place big enough to stand up to them. It’s easier to harass unguarded farms than cities.”

“Ought to turn them down just because of the looks that Rhys guy was giving you,” Deacon muttered. “Half expected him to pull his gun any second, bastard was so on edge.”

Nick shrugged once. “The fact that he didn’t? Shows a lot more restraint that some people I’ve met. I’ll hear everyone out, at the very least. The whole ‘reserve the right to refuse service’ applies to folks in fancy uniforms, too.”

That much could wait until morning, and they put it aside in favor of one more drink that Vadim happily provided. He informed them -- and as a result, the room as a  whole -- that he wouldn’t tolerate anyone harassing Diamond City’s finest in his inn, and that if those “steel-suited bastards” caused problems he would happily kick them out in an instant. By force, if necessary.

Deacon didn’t have the heart to point out that many of those steel-suited bastards also carried mini-guns and had a hell of a lot of backup.

It was the thought that counted.

And hey, at least there might be something interesting to deal with for the first day of this damned mandatory break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been here long enough that you know I'm just stupidly slow, right?
> 
> My sister, as usual, was wonderful with her editing, she doesn't have anywhere I can easily link to but I will sing her praises regardless.
> 
> Also as usual, come yell with me on [my Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com) (and much love to all of you who already do!)  
> I've moved the story/chapter title playlist to [this site here](https://play.soundsgood.co/playlist/under-cover-of-night-2) since playmoss started acting up, and the previous mentions of it got updated as well.
> 
> Thank you all, as always, for the patience and so many kind words! We're getting close to the point where I only have vague plans instead of specific ones (everything up through chapter 20 is pretty much set in stone) so it's probably time for me to start working on that next arc. (Also who would've ever thought I'd write more than 100k words on one project, good lord)  
> You're wonderful!!


	18. standing under an overpass in the rain

It was a little surprising that the Brotherhood men came back the next morning, as promised.

Piper went home for Nat, but Carly and Deacon stayed in the agency that night, on the off chance that the Brotherhood decided to try anything while the rest of the city was asleep. It seemed unlikely--just bad strategy, if nothing else--but the paranoia was still strong, and too often validated.

Deacon wouldn’t have complained if they had conveniently forgotten, or the men had decided the idea of working with a synth was bordering too much on heresy. Maybe it said something in their favor that they came back, but he was more willing to bet that facing their superiors without having completed the job was less appealing than sitting down with Nick.

The man in power armor had to leave it outside; it had barely fit in the Dugout, and definitely wasn’t going to squeeze into the small alley. He was as rugged-looking as Rhys, if a good bit taller. Rhys introduced him as Knight Forsythe. Forsythe himself didn’t say much at first, standing rigid by the door, a hand resting on the grip of his pistol. He looked tense, ready to draw with very little provocation. Rhys looked like he’d rather be facing down a rabid Deathclaw.

It took a good deal of self-control for Deacon to stand back next to Carly by the stairs. Ellie was posted in her usual spot, clipboard in hand, as Nick sat behind his desk and gestured at the empty chair in front of it.

“Alright,” he started, leaning back a little when Rhys, who still had a very dirty look on his face, refused to sit, “fill me in. What’s the Brotherhood want with a local detective?”

Rhys hesitated, his entire posture as tense as it had been the previous night. He seemed to be keeping his eyes on Ellie as much as possible. “As I said,” he stated curtly, “my commander is looking for assistance with an investigation. It doesn’t seem like he knew--”

“No, he knew.” Forsythe had interrupted suddenly, and there was a hint of a of a smirk on his face when Rhys whipped around to glare at him. “Must’ve forgotten to fill you in, is all.”

Rhys glowered for a short moment before pulling in a slow breath, and turning back to face Nick. “I can’t say I understand the logic,” he ground out, “but I’m here under orders. We’re willing to pay your usual fees.”

“Well,” Nick said flatly, staring the man down even as Rhys pointedly avoided eye contact, “we’ll discuss that once I actually hear the case. As many details as you can, please.”

It took a few seconds before the poorly-hidden disgust was pushed aside in favor of following orders. Rhys settled for standing stiffly, hands folded behind his back, eyes locked on the opposite wall.

“There have been increased reports of raider attacks,” he said, with a tone that spoke strongly to him having memorized the report to rattle off whenever necessary. “Local civilian farms are seeing much more significant losses than usual, especially during the colder months.”

“Hang on,” Carly cut in, taking a step forward, her arms crossed tightly, “what is this? Raiders are old news, why the hell does the oh-so-high-and-mighty Brotherhood of Steel care about them?”

The look Rhys shot her might have been the most contempt Deacon had ever seen on a human face, but it was Forsythe that ended up answering from his position by the door.

“A lot of these farms have agreed to contribute to our work.” It was a little jarring how different the two men came across. Rhys was as clipped and formal as a technical manual, and Forsythe just sounded like he was extremely bored. “It takes a lot of supplies to provide for this many ground troops; anything that hurts them hurts our efforts as well.”

Carly snorted. “Ah, I get it. You mean _you’re_ the only ones allowed to rip off farmers around here, because you pretend to ask permission first.”

A muscle ticked in Rhys’ jaw. “All of the donations are completely voluntary,” he ground out.

“If I remember correctly,” Carly shot back, “walking in and ‘asking’ for donations with a minigun in hand, wearing a full suit of power armor, is more coercion than anything else.”

“And if I remember correctly, _civilian_ ,” Rhys snapped, “we didn’t request an audience.”

“Either way,” Nick interrupted--and just in time, because Carly looked ready to jump someone, while Forsythe had straightened a little from his uninterested lean against the wall-- “raiders happen. What exactly are you expecting me to do about that?”

There was a short silence. Rhys looked like he was getting a bit of self control back. He dialed the contempt down a notch or two, which admittedly wasn’t saying much, before turning to look at Ellie again.

“I’m not sure you _can_ do anything about it,” he said, an underlying note of disdain still prevalent. “Unless raiders let off unique radio frequencies…”

“You either want him to take the job or you don’t,” Deacon interjected. It took some effort to keep his voice level, and even more to keep his posture relaxed; the whole room had the tense feeling of a weapon about to be drawn. “Get to the point or find some other help, huh?”

“We’re just here on orders,” Forsythe stated flatly, his tone at odds with the way he still had a hand on his pistol. “Trust me, I wasn’t supportive in hiring some clockwork dick for a job that a few Knights could handle in a day or two.”

Yeah, Deacon decided firmly, he _really_ hated these guys.

“It’s synth detective, jackass,” Nick said, feigning complete obliviousness to the three people in the room who looked primed and ready to throw a punch. “If you’re gonna be that way, at least get the make and model right.”

Ellie had put the clipboard down at some point, and though she looked more weary than angry, there was a distinct stiffness in her shoulders as she stared Rhys down.

“You might be here on orders,” she said sharply, “but that sure as hell doesn’t mean we have to take the job. If you lot want a detective that has a record of getting results without ripping you off, I’d try for a little common decency.”

Rhys glanced back at his partner, and after a moment, Forsythe leaned back against the wall, giving a quick nod, inviting Rhys to continue.

That earned a long sigh. It took Rhys a second to turn again, but he finally looked at Nick this time.

Baby steps, maybe.

“We have reason to believe a large portion of these raiders are selling to one man,” he said, returning to the even, clipped tone. “There aren’t many respectable places that will buy from them, so they use a middle-man to get the stolen goods on the market. The individual raiders aren’t the concern; we want you to find their buyer.”

Carly laughed, short and harsh. “What,” she demanded, mildly incredulous, “you’re just after a _fence_?”

“We’re trying to make the Commonwealth safer,” Rhys countered sharply. “That requires more than destroying individual camps. If you want to take out a nest of ants, you don’t focus on the workers. You kill their queen.”

It went quiet again. Nick kept his eyes on the man in front of him, but he looked more thoughtful than concerned. When he stood, Rhys only shifted his weight back instead of stepping away.

“Alright,” Nick said, leaning both hands on his desk. “Guess you’ve hired yourself a detective. I want to make it clear, though,” he added firmly, “I’m no hitman. I’ll do some digging, find out what’s going on, and give you a name if possible. You’re not hiring me to kill anyone.”

Forsythe snorted quietly. Rhys gave a short nod.

“We need information. As much as possible.” Another one of those condescending looks. “A patrol will take things from there.”

Nick nodded as well, glancing briefly at Ellie before returning his attention to the soldiers. “So, boys,” he raised the mechanical component that would otherwise have been an eyebrow, “what sort of budget did this commander of yours give you?”

Deacon was pretty certain that the prices discussed were a hell of a lot higher than Nick usually charged. Some people didn’t pay at all, if they didn’t have the means.

If Nick’d had a heart, it’d be a bleeding one. He certainly didn’t seem to mind getting whatever he could from the Brotherhood, though.

The soldiers left immediately after settling on a payment, a mix of relief and disgust on Rhys’s face, and Carly swore under her breath as soon as the door closed.

“So they’re getting professional help extorting now, are they?” she muttered. “That’s just great, that’s…” Her laugh was forced. “I mean, I get they’re not the type to take ‘no’ for an answer, but this is a shitty job, Nick.”

“It’s the clients that bother me, not the job itself.” Nick sighed, pulling out a sheet of paper and making a note that Deacon couldn’t read from the distance. Ellie ripped the paper she’d been writing on out of its notebook, passed it over, and Nick closed both into an empty file. “We’re getting rid of a big raider trading ring. That benefits everyone, no matter who’s paying for it.”

“Lesser of two evils,” Ellie grumbled, shooting a glare toward the door. “Though if half the stories about them are true...you’ve heard the rumors about Rivet City as many times as I have.”

“Never confirmed ones,” Nick reminded her. “DC is a rough place, and the majority claim it was a successful raid.”

“Sure,” the secretary retorted, “because none of the locals there are gonna disagree with the official story their mighty overlords put out.” Ellie shook her head with a sigh. “You’re going anyway, I know, but just...watch yourself with these guys. They’re not subtle about their dislike for synths.”

Deacon scoffed. “I’d say “dislike” is putting it lightly. But he’ll have backup.” He shot a glance at Nick instinctively, making sure that assumption was accurate, and the hint of a smile when Nick met his eyes was confirmation enough. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything _too_ stupid.”

“Yeah,” Nick said, the expression turning into a full smile, “because I’m the one doing stupid things.”

They both looked over at Carly after a brief pause. She was quiet, watching the floor, and it was a moment before she let out a slow breath.

“I can’t…” She shook her head, shoulders slumping. “I can’t do work for the Brotherhood. Even if I hated them slightly less, I’m still technically General. I don’t want it looking like they’ve got any kind of alliance with the Minutemen before I sort things out with Preston.”

Right. She was technically General, wasn’t she? It was easy to forget sometimes, especially since Deacon had always known her first and foremost as an agent.

Nick didn’t hesitate long before nodding. “Makes sense. Anyway, Dez was right -- we need you ready once Tom finishes everything.”

Carly scoffed. “I could break my arms and I’d still be going, believe me.” She folded her arms, expression thoughtful. “Still, a lot can get done in a week.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve getting shot,” Deacon told her firmly.

“Right,” Ellie scoffed, “says the guy willingly hunting down raiders.”

Deacon waved one hand vaguely back toward Nick. “I’m just the backup, okay? This is his party.”

“At least I _have_ backup,” Nick said, raising an eyebrow at Carly. “Do I even want to know what you’re planning?”

She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Like I said, I need to talk to Preston anyway. Probably just head up to Sanctuary for a while. Take care of some things there.”

Her resolve didn’t waver under the slightly suspicious looks, and after another long pause, Nick sighed.

“Well, whatever you’re _actually_ gonna do,” he said defeatedly, “just watch your back.”

“I always do.” Carly hesitated, glancing around the room, before letting her arms fall back to her sides. “I’ll see you back at the boathouse, I guess.”

She was out the door a second later without any further acknowledgement.

It probably would’ve been a better idea to make the plan a little more concrete, but Deacon figured she could handle things well enough by now. That didn’t stop the stab of paranoia that he did his best to tamp down, but he was good at ignoring that kind of thing.

“So,” he said, clapping his hands together sharply as he turned back to Nick, a wide grin on his face, “what’s the brilliant plan, detective?”

* * *

They stocked up on what they could in the market before leaving. Deacon got a handful of bullets for his rifle, and Nick put what extra fusion cells he had in one of the pockets of his bag. The bullets for his pistol were rarer, and a hell of a lot more expensive, but Deacon suspected Arturo gave some kind of discount as one of however many favors he owed Nick.

Deacon spotted Carly on the way to the gate. She was under the Occurrence’s porch, leaning against the wall and chatting with Nat, who had an armful of papers. Both of them glanced up, and Carly raised a hand in a quick wave, before her attention went back to Nat’s story--something involving poisoned water supplies and a corrupt guard, from what little Deacon could catch.

Once they were near the top of the ramp, Deacon glanced back with a quiet scoff. “Something tells me she’s not gonna make that trip to Sanctuary alone.”

“You think?” Nick glanced down at him with exaggerated surprise. “We’ll make a detective of you yet.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “Just sayin’. A lot can happen in a week. Twenty caps says they make it official before we meet up at Mercer.”

He expected the remark to be laughed off. He didn’t expect Nick to pause at the top of the staircase and look back down at the city.

“Nah,” Nick said quietly, “not that soon. There’s still a lot of shit to deal with.”

“Yeah, but _a week_.” Deacon shot him a wide, sly grin. “Thirty caps?”

Nick watched him for a second longer. Then he snorted, leading the way down the steps. “Caps are fine, but they don’t _mean_ much. Only bets I take are at least slightly significant.”

He hadn’t thought he’d get this far. Deacon considered that, adjusting the weight of his rifle when they passed under the main gate. “Okay,” he said, “significant, huh? What’d you have in mind?”

They paused again at the base of Sammy’s statue. Nick looked like he was putting some serious thought into it, which was both surprising and oddly satisfying.

“Alright.” Nick folded his arms, and now he was grinning slightly, too. “You lose,” those yellow eyes held no room for argument; strange, considering they were robotic, “you tell me your name. No dodging around it, no guessing games, just a straight answer for once.”

That definitely hadn’t been what Deacon expected.

It wasn’t that he was worried about losing. Deacon was very confident in his ability to read people--most people, anyway--and he knew he was right on this one. Still, even the slight chance of having that conversation put him on edge.

It wasn’t like he could lie, either, Nick always seemed to know. The current system worked because it came down to Nick pulling names out of thin air, and Deacon shooting them down. He could do that; it was definitely a loophole, but it worked.

“Deal,” he found himself saying. “If you lose…” A quick look-over didn’t reveal anything new about Nick, and eventually, all Deacon could do was shrug. “How about your hat?”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious? I go for a major personal detail, and you want my _hat_?”

“It’s a nice hat,” Deacon pointed out. “I always appreciate a good hat. I’m not as invested in digging up dark secrets as you are.”

“Bullshit.” Nick only hesitated a second before he stuck out his left hand. “But you’ve got a deal.”

Deacon shook firmly, his grin even wider. “I assume we’re also in agreement to not tell her about any of it, right?”

“Well,” Nick grinned back, “obviously.”

The idea of purposefully heading toward a raider camp was not one Deacon was fond of, but it was apparently the only way Nick knew how to work things. Made at least a bit of sense, he supposed -- hard to find their buyer without first going to the source -- but the plan still felt like he was just asking to get shot.

“So,” Deacon said when they were well into the outskirts of the city, “how do you know this guy is even gonna talk to us?”

Nick shrugged. “Even raiders can be negotiated with. Usually. I knew Hector when he was a kid, pulled him out of a few nasty spots. He owes me one.”

“Pretty sure everyone in the damn ‘Wealth owes you one by now,” Deacon pointed out, and Nick scoffed. “So what, some old Goodneighbor kid turns raider and you’ve kept tabs on him this whole time?”

“I’m a detective, remember?” Nick shrugged. “I’ve got sources.”

“You keep track of everyone like that?”

Nick laughed, shaking his head. “Just the ones that might come in handy. Never know when you might need a contact somewhere.”

Deacon hummed thoughtfully, arms folding across his chest. “So you got someone everywhere? Gunners?”

“One of the captains used to live in Diamond City.”

“Neighborhood Watch?”

“I figure Hancock counts for that entire town, he’s in on everything.”

“Minutemen?”

“Yeah, we just saw her like, an hour ago.”

“Institute?”

“Oh yeah,” Nick snorted, “sure, I’m great friends with their...headmaster, or whatever.”

“Hah!” Deacon pointed a dramatic, accusing finger. “I knew it, you’ve given yourself up, Valentine.”

Nick laughed again, shoving Deacon’s shoulder lightly. “Ah, man, the cover’s blown. Knew I should’ve splurged for that deluxe disguise programming.”

“Wouldn’t have done any good,” Deacon grinned, “can’t beat the master of disguise at his own game.”

“Master of disguise, huh?” Nick shot him a grin back, eyebrow raised. “Carly told me how you were hiding out at Bunker Hill. Didn’t sound very subtle.”

So she had recognized him in town. Deacon wondered if that was the only time, or if she’d noticed the other less-than-steller looks he’d thrown on to “blend in” in the different communities. She hadn’t mentioned it before -- maybe assumed she was saving him some dignity or something.

“She saw me because I wanted her to,” Deacon told him. “Like I said before, I’d been keeping an eye on her from the start. Trust me, I’ve had plenty of practice; I can be invisible if I want to. And not just because Stealth-boys are the greatest invention the pre-War folks came up with.”

Nick scoffed. “Sure. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“You _won’t_ see it, though,” Deacon retorted, “that’s the point.”

He hadn’t had reason to use a full disguise in a while. That was one of the stranger things about traveling with Carly; she was much less concerned about people knowing who she was than Deacon would ever be.

Granted, practically everyone had known who she was ever since she pulled Nick out of that Vault. The blue jumpsuit might be stuffed in a drawer somewhere, but the air of a Vault dweller was still, somehow, unmistakable. He figured as long as people kept seeing her as the new Minuteman General instead of a Railroad agent, the fame wouldn’t be too big of an issue.

The fact that he was traveling with two of the most well-known people in Boston on a regular basis was still unsettling sometimes.

They went to the western edge of the city, passing by the large pond that had the unfortunate tendency to attract bugs. Deacon managed to hit one of the flies with the barrel of his rifle, which he was both disgusted by and a little proud of.

He still really needed a decent pistol.

It started raining lightly a little ways past Vault 81, much to Deacon’s disappointment at the weather as a whole. He kept his gun as covered as possible while still keeping his arms folded tightly across his chest. The wind was blowing from the north, not the west, so it probably wouldn’t bring in a rad storm.

A small comfort when the sweaters he’d gotten from Ticon and thin jacket he’d picked up on their scavving runs were damp and cold within the first ten minutes.

Not that he’d mention it, of course. He’d faced down a Deathclaw singlehandedly; he could handle a little rain.

It still _really_ sucked.

They stopped under the overpass, close enough to Mass Pike to see the silhouette of the Gunner’s set-up through the haze, but hopefully not close enough that anyone up there would pay them any mind. Deacon tugged the knit hat he wore a little further down over his ears and pulled out a strip of radstag jerky. It was mostly habit and the knowledge that he should eat than any serious hunger, and the movements were more mechanical as he leaned against one of the concrete pillars.

It hadn’t been more than a few minutes before he noticed the change in the rain; the wind shifted slightly, and Deacon could see small white spots beginning to catch on the grass.

“Oh,” he muttered, “ _good_.”

Nick looked up from the inspection of his gun, his eyes on Deacon for a moment before he glanced back toward the river and snorted.

“Well, that’ll make things fun. Came a little later than I expected this year.”

Deacon rolled his eyes, his head tilting back to rest against the pillar. “Wouldn’t have complained if it didn’t show at all. Damn frozen radiation can stay in the clouds where it belongs.”

He heard Nick scoff. “I figure it’s better than rain if you’re not lookin’ to start glowing. Takes longer to soak in, or so I’ve heard.”

“Yeah,” Deacon replied flatly, “it’s also fucking _cold_. You know how much effort it takes to sew good socks these days?”

Not that he couldn’t handle a bit of snow. It was just ridiculously inconvenient, what with needing extra gear and being much easier to track when a layer of the stuff had built up.

And, like he’d said, it was _cold_.

“You gonna need an extra layer?” Nick asked suddenly, and Deacon looked over to see him plucking at the collar of his coat. “It’s not like it makes a difference for me.”

The surprised hesitation wasn’t intentional, and Deacon was glad he hadn’t tensed up, because that was _not_ something he had been expecting.

“Nah.” Deacon waved one hand dismissively. At least that looked casual. “It’s not that bad. Not to say I’m not gonna complain about it every step of the way, but that’d happen anyway.”

Nick just scoffed again, but nodded as he turned back to his gun.

Really, an extra layer would be useful. He could practically see Carly’s shit-eating grin if she ever found out about it, though, and she would find out somehow.

Plus...well, he just _definitely_ could not handle that shit right now.

The snow wasn’t about to stop any time soon, so they relented after another few minutes and pushed on. It wasn’t debilitatingly cold yet, but if this sort of weather kept up, Deacon felt he’d need to invest in a better jacket.

The only good thing about snow was how it seemed to quiet things down. Most animals stayed burrowed wherever they could, and people were less likely to bother with a confrontation when staying inside was a much better and warmer option. Not having to waste bullets was always nice.

He liked the muted feeling it gave the area. It was one redeeming factor, at least.

“Y’know I once got a Super Mutant so pissed, he started a snowball fight?” Deacon said after a while.

Nick glanced over with a look that was equal parts skeptical and amused. “Were the snowballs grenades, in this case?”

Deacon snorted. “Nah, that’s a story for another time. This was legitimate snowballs. Guess he didn’t have a gun, and he never could get a bead on me, so the idiot just started pelting snow everywhere.”

“Not sure that counts as a snowball fight,” Nick pointed out. “Plus, it’s bullshit anyway.”

 _How the_ hell, _Valentine…_

Deacon just shrugged. “Well, who knows?”

Nick gave him a sideways glance. “I know it’s not a _fight_ unless you retaliated. Did you throw anything back?”

Deacon narrowed his eyes slightly. “Thought you said it was bullshit.”

Nick gave a conceding grunt. “It is, definitely. But a good story never hurt.”

Deacon had to squint up at him for a moment, trying to determine how serious he was. Nick just kept his eyes on the road ahead, as unreadable as ever. After a moment, Deacon snorted.

“Well that much I can do -- even though it’s definitely true, every word. See, this _asshole_ apparently thought he could take someone out with just a handful of snow -- which, admittedly, packs a punch with that kind of arm behind it…”

It was different, weaving that kind of story when he wasn’t actively trying to make someone believe it. Took less focus, but Deacon couldn’t say he minded. Kept his mind off the cold and the fact that they were purposefully walking toward a raider camp, and Nick was a good audience.

The whole raider thing came back up again very soon, though, when Nick stopped at a street corner next to a rusting mailbox and knelt, swinging his bag in front of him.

“Important thing to remember with these guys,” he said, pulling out a smaller sack and shaking it quickly so the caps inside rattled, “is that nine times out of ten, they’ll take a payday over killing someone.”

“I think that’s being generous,” Deacon muttered. “That other one time is drug-addled rages and bloodbaths, right?”

Nick considered that a moment and then shrugged as he stood again. His pistol was still holstered, which wasn’t doing much for Deacon’s nerves.

“They’re raiders,” Nick said. “Raiders are still people, and most people can be negotiated with. Just don’t give them a reason to shoot you.”

“Sure.” Deacon shrugged his own pack off, only hesitating a few seconds before he shoved it into the mailbox. Nick’s fit next to it well enough to get the small door shut before they started walking again. “So just don’t look at any of them, or breathe, or...y’know, exist?”

Nick chuckled. “Or complain. They hate complaining.”

It was a sound plan, at least; leave anything valuable somewhere away from the camp -- except the guns, of course, because these were still raiders -- and offer up a decent number of caps in exchange for safe passage. It had been a little surprising that Nick had that many caps ready to offer up at all, but, as he’d pointed out, all he had to spend them on was rent for the agency, Ellie’s pay, and ammo.

This was just an investment on a case that the Brotherhood’s pay would more than make up for. If things went well, they could get in, talk to Hector, and get far away before anyone decided the pay wasn’t worth it.

Then again, ‘things going well’ wasn’t exactly commonplace.

The camp was pretty obvious; this group had taken over one of the sections of road that ended in a circle (Deacon knew he’d heard the name of that before and had completely forgotten it), stringing up barbed wire and planting spikes where there wasn’t concrete in the way. The small circle of houses were all reasonably intact, and it looked like the road itself had turned into a common area.

Deacon kept an eye on the rooftops, looking for any traces of sniper perches. He noted at least two spots where someone could hunker down behind a chimney, get some good shots in any direction, but it wasn’t clear if there was anyone up there or not.

Which was, as he knew, the point of snipers in the first place.

They were spotted in short order. The fact that no one shot at them immediately was a good sign, but the small group that met them at the edge of the camp, six different kinds of guns primed and ready, still had Deacon itching to get his own rifle in his hands.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’ here?” the man at the front called.

At least he was to the point.

Nick raised both hands, the bag of caps still in one of them. “I’ve got 500 caps here for you to not kill us,” he said shortly. “I just need to talk to one of your men, and then we’ll be gone.”

The raider stepped forward, head tilted to one side curiously. He had more armor than the rest of the group around him, so it seemed likely he was the head of this particular gang. The thick scars down one side of his face said that he’d spilled a lot of blood earning that position.

“You wanna pay us so as not t’kill ya.” It was more a statement than a question, but Nick nodded anyway. The raider let out a loud, hoarse laugh, looking back toward his backup for a moment.

His handgun was out a split second later, leveled a foot away from Nick’s head.

“So what the fuck’s stoppin’ me from just killin’ ya anyway and takin’ those caps, _synth_?”

Deacon hoped, distantly, that the sudden surge of panic didn’t show on his face at all. He managed to push it down again quickly, and somehow Nick didn’t look at all phased.

This had been a really stupid idea. A small part of him felt vindicated that he had been right, but it wasn’t a satisfying victory.

“What the _fuck_ , Cage?”

No one moved at the sudden, sharp voice, but no one shot anyone, either, so that was something. Deacon could see a younger man striding up from the corner of his eye; there was a gun in this guy’s hands, too, but it wasn’t currently pointed at anyone, which was somewhat encouraging.

The lead raider -- Cage, apparently -- barely glanced over when the new guy reached them, and the pistol never wavered.

“What?” he snapped. “We don’t put up with trespassers, do we?”

“Fuckin’ idiot,” the newcomer spat, “you want the whole of Diamond City up our asses?”

Cage snorted, but he looked away from Nick for a moment to gesture at him with a free hand. “For what, gettin’ rid of some synth and--” he glanced at Deacon with a sneer-- “who’re you, its mechanic? Trust me, Rami, they’ll thank us.”

“You don’t mess with Valentine, man,” Rami insisted. “Seriously, might be nice to survive long enough to use those caps.”

“Valentine?” Cage’s eyes narrowed, and his pistol finally lowered several inches. “What, that cop people go on about?”

“Detective, technically,” Nick spoke up. He hadn’t moved since the gun came out, hands still at shoulder height. Must be nice to not have them get tired. And to not get cold, because standing in one spot for this long was letting the snow start to gather on the back of Deacon’s neck. “And he’s got a point; I’ve got plenty of folks who owe me favors, who wouldn’t take kindly to anyone who got rid of the only guy who bothers tracking down runaways.”

Deacon doubted Cage could notice it, since Nick’s eyes were harder to follow if you weren’t familiar with them, but the glance at Rami with that last part was enough of a clue.

They’d apparently found their contact.

Cage glared at all of them for a few seconds longer before he let out an angry huff and swiped the bag of caps from Nick’s hand.

“You’ve got an hour,” he spat. “After that, you’re fair game.”

He turned on his heel before anyone could respond, muttering something to one of the other raiders as he passed. The small group broke up, wandering back to their posts, each with at least one suspicious look at Nick.

That was always a benefit of traveling with Nick in the first place, Deacon noted. Almost no one focused on the random waster over the synth in a trenchcoat.

Rami jerked his head toward the nearest building and, despite every instinct telling Deacon that walking into a raider camp where the raiders were all still very much alive was a _terrible_ idea, they followed him.

“You’re both morons,” Rami muttered as soon as the door creaked shut behind them, reducing the wind to a low groan through the gaps in the wood. “Like, Super Mutant level of moron.” He swung his shotgun onto his back and leaned a hip against an old counter. “Guessing I’m the guy you’re looking to talk to?”

Nick nodded, glancing toward the boarded window like he might be able to see through it. “Rami now, is it? For Ramirez?”

“I dunno,” Rami rolled of his shoulders in a semblance of a shrug, “it stuck. But my name’s not the point -- what the hell are you doing here? You know I’m not going back.”

“I know, and I’m not asking you to.” Nick folded his arms with a sardonic smirk. “Remember that ‘any time, no questions asked’ favor you owe me?”

Rami’s hard expression fell immediately, and he heaved a long sigh, head tilting to stare up at the ceiling. “I figured the whole ‘keeping your ass alive out there’ thing would be enough to pay that off.”

“That paid off the one where I saved _your_ ass back then,” Nick told him. “You still owe me for keeping your grandmother from killing you later.”

There was a very brief, conflicted look on Rami’s face, but in the end, he swung his arms out to the side defeatedly.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But I’m taking back the ‘no questions asked’ part. The hell do you want? And who the hell are _you_ , anyway?” he added suddenly, his glare shooting over to Deacon.

Took him long enough.

“Mutually interested party,” Deacon said with a casual shrug. “Extra gun. Roguishly handsome merc who isn’t getting paid enough for this. Take your pick.”

“He’s my partner,” Nick said shortly. He ignored the indignant look Deacon shot him and pressed on. “We just need some information.”

Rami rolled his eyes, but the way he relentlessly picked at a frayed thread on his armor betrayed sudden nervousness. “Information, huh?” He shifted on his feet, refusing to look at either of them, but Deacon could see a flash of worry and dread across his face before Rami forced his expression back to indifference. “Couldn’t get that from anywhere else, had to come here?”

“Anyone else would’ve let us get shot, kid,” Nick reminded him. “I’m on a job, and you’re the only one in this business I know.”

“Like hell I am.” Rami hesitated a moment longer before sighing heavily, glancing once toward the door, then rapidly between Nick and Deacon. “Not makin’ any promises. Not gonna compromise my crew, understand?” He huffed, short and resigned. “What’re you looking for?”

Deacon caught the quick look Nick shot him, and had to fight back the immediate urge to roll his eyes, because of course he was supposed to be the one to break the news that someone was after the raiders’ favorite fence. Maybe it wouldn’t be quite as bad coming from someone this kid didn’t know, but even so…

Then he remembered the word ‘partner’, and had to make an effort to keep his expression neutral.

“We’re looking for someone,” Deacon stated flatly. If Nick was going to appeal to this kid’s existing trust, Deacon figured he could be the one to stick to the point. “Heard you lot are starting to coordinate, sell to the same guy. Any idea who that is?”

Rami stared at him for a few seconds, then snorted loudly.

“Fuck, man, you serious? Anyone gettin’ hired to find that sorta shit out isn’t trying to get a loan or something. Who wants him dead?”

Deacon had to keep his expression clear, fighting back a smirk. Well, he did have a point.

“Pretty private clientele,” Nick said with a shrug. “Not entirely a fan of them myself, to be honest.”

Rami raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So why the hell’ you take the job?”

“Look, Hector--” Nick cut himself off, shaking his head-- “Rami, you know your...job, we’ll call it,  isn’t a popular one. Got a lot of bigger powers in the ‘Wealth whose main goals are cleaning it up, and stopping gangs like this is one of the priorities. We’re not going after your people specifically, but we need this fence.”

“Like _hell_ you do.” Rami scrubbed a hand back through his hair with a breath that Deacon could hear shake at the edges. “I’m not gonna be the one who ratted out someone like that, he’ll kill me himself.”

“It’s not like we’re going to tell him,” Deacon pointed out. “Never even said we wanted the guy dead, just need information on him.”

Rami still looked skeptical. “What, trying to set up a meeting or something? So what, you just got even more of a death wish than I thought?”

Nick shrugged. “Only looking to talk. Just like here.”

“Which nearly got you shot in the face.” Rami kept his eyes on the door for a moment longer, his brow furrowed. “Puttin’ me in a bad place here, Nicky, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“It won’t be traced back to you, or your camp,” Nick assured placatingly, “I can promise that.”

Rami scoffed. “No, you can’t. Not with this guy. He scares Cage, man, and that’s not easy to do.”

“Fair enough,” Deacon said. He tried to make folding his arms look casual, and not like he was starting to deeply regret not having a better jacket. “So, would you really be torn up about it if something happened to him?”

Another long pause. Rami chewed at his bottom lip indecisively.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he finally muttered. “Fine. Your fucking funerals, alright? It’s not like I know much about him anyway, never met him or nothin’. I just sorta know where people go to meet up.”

Nick nodded. “We’ll take what we can get.”

Rami rubbed a hand over his face, his groan low and long-suffering. “You suck, Valentine,” he said firmly. “We’re more than even after this.”

Nick’s nod was barely noticeable this time, but his slight smile was encouraging. “Just give me a location, kid.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing.” There was a hint of a grim smirk as Rami straightened. “You sure as hell aren’t gonna like it.”

* * *

“Figures,” Deacon muttered as he pulled the mailbox door open. “Just _figures_ , I swear the universe just wants me to die in that place.”

Nick just rolled his eyes as Deacon passed him his bag -- it was a relief that they were both still there at all -- and swung it over his shoulders. “It’s just the edge of the Sea. Probably not even green yet.”

“It’s still the damn Glowing Sea,” Deacon groused. “I would definitely prefer to never go within ten miles of it, ‘edge’ or not.”

“You don’t have to come with,” Nick pointed out. “I’ve done worse on my own, trust me.”

Deacon shook his head with a huff of a sigh. “Right, and have Ellie straight up murder me for letting you be stupid by yourself? Not to mention Carly digging me up so she could kill me again? I’ve got your back.” He gave Nick a sour look. “I’m just gonna complain about it the whole way.”

Nick laughed. “Wouldn’t expect anything else. We’re not heading out tonight, anyway; won’t find much decent shelter after this area, and I don’t like the idea of being stuck in a snowstorm all night.”

Couldn’t argue with that. Deacon was hopeful the snow would relent before morning, but it had only gotten heavier in the past few hours, and now there was a consistent layer of the stuff on the sides of the asphalt. If they stuck to the roads, there wouldn’t be any need to walk through slush just yet, but that wouldn’t last long if the weather kept up.

They tried to head in a general westerly direction through the suburbs, but the priority was finding somewhere with at least three walls and a half-decent roof. A lot of the houses were half-collapsed, and others had enough holes to make the walls useless. It took another half hour and prying off the wood on the doorframe to find a decent place. Having to make a hole wasn’t ideal, but the fact that there were no other obvious entry points was promising.

The cursory sweep of the house didn’t turn up anything of real interest, but there were still a few old chairs in one corner that would make much better kindling than any of the wet wood outside.

“So,” Deacon said, bracing one of the chairs against a windowsill to kick the leg off, “partner, huh?”

He could swear Nick was almost embarrassed for half a second, not immediately looking up from the newspaper he was shredding. Then he flashed a quick grin, and shrugged.

“You’re helping me on an agency case,” Nick pointed out. He sounded casual, but there was something forced about his nonchalant tone. “Not sure what else you’d call it.”

“Fair enough.” Deacon tossed the newly-broken chunk of wood toward the center of the room and got to work on the next piece. “But what happened to the whole ‘not calling out the lying in public’ thing?”

Nick snorted quietly. “You telling me he would’ve been more approving of some shady merc? Whole thing only worked because the kid trusted me.”

Deacon gave a conceding grunt, kicking at the second leg twice before it gave. “The merc cover’s always the best, though; vague, intimidating enough, gives off a sort of roguish charm…”

“Sure it does. Toss me your lighter.”

Deacon had pulled it out of his pocket before he even thought to wonder where Nick’s was, but he threw it over his shoulder anyway. By the time he turned with another piece of wood, the smaller sticks were starting to catch, casting strange shadows across Nick’s face.

The wood pile was small, but it should last through most of the night if they kept the flames low. Deacon sunk down to the creaking floor, leaning back against the moth-eaten couch. He couldn’t stop the sudden, strong shiver when the admittedly minimal heat reached him, and wondered vaguely if there was any specific reason to shiver like that while technically getting warmer.

He didn’t pay attention to Nick moving a few feet away until a bundle of fabric was dropped on his legs. Deacon squinted down at it for a moment and then frowned up at Nick, whose off-white shirt was strangely bright in the shadows.

“Told you, I’m good,” Deacon said, picking up one arm of the coat questioningly. “With the fire especially, it’s not--”

“And I’m tellin’ _you_ ,” Nick interrupted, “I don’t need it. Last thing we need is you all stiff tomorrow because you’re trying to out-stubborn the seasons, especially where we’re headed.”

Nick made a good point. He did that on an annoyingly frequent basis.

Deacon rolled his eyes with a long, resigned sigh, but shifted enough to pull the coat over his shoulders, and hell, it _was_ a lot warmer. It also had that combination of cigarette smoke and ozone, and that shit did nothing to help him. He knew the exact look Carly would give him; she was relentless about seeing things that weren’t there. There wasn’t anything to see. Hell, his entire job was seeing things, observing, noticing behavior…

Still, as he pulled the coat a little tighter around his shoulders, Deacon wasn’t sure what his rebuttal would be if Carly _had_ been there.

Despite that, ‘that’ being ‘nothing’ because it wasn’t _anything,_ dammit, he dozed off quickly. There was a brief moment of half-clarity every time Nick got up to put on a new piece of wood or stoked the fire, but for a night leaning against an old couch, in a rundown building, with the snow still accumulating outside, Deacon slept a lot better than he would’ve thought.

If it happened he noticed when Nick sat back down next to him in front of said old couch, he didn’t think it worth mentioning.

And if he noticed himself instinctively lean into the warmth that Nick somehow always gave off, or that his neck had a slight crick in it the next morning from leaning to one side instead of forward, well…

Definitely not worth mentioning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months later, I remain very slow at this. But hey, new chapter!
> 
> I'm moving in less than two weeks and got a lot of adult things to work on after that (because guess who eventually gets to live in Moscow for a year??) but I am very much looking forward to the next few chapters, so they'll definitely be worked on as consistently as I can!
> 
> As per usual, my [Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com) is open for you to peruse/yell at me. The fic's [playlist ](https://soundsgood.co/me/curator/hornswaggler/playlist/591ec3e9cce72993396c9850) has been updated with this chapter's title song (and true facts, I found the song after I had written the part of the chapter it fits so well with).  
> My sister, as per usual, was wonderful with her edits and suggestions and yelling with me.  
> To quote the lovely keycchan, every kudos and comment makes you just that much more of a Very Cool Person.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around, guys!


	19. feeling all the highs and lows...

The snow had finally stopped when they set out the next morning, though dark clouds still hung heavy over them as the pair turned south. It wasn’t as cold without the wind, so Deacon had stubbornly given Nick the coat back before they left the old house. This type of weather was tolerably chilly, rather than a risk for frostbite, and the walk would keep him warm enough.

Hell if he needed to spend the day wearing Nick Valentine’s coat all over the wasteland.

There was only a thin layer of white on the road, but it had gotten several inches deep along the sides, small piles forming wherever the asphalt had cracked away. Not too bad to walk through, all things considered, but Deacon was grateful his shoes were waterproof enough to keep from soaking through after the first ten minutes.

It was surprisingly calm, considering the area. Deacon could see a few ruts in the snow, already smoothed over by the wind. Probably mole rats, rabbits, something that preferred not to have to wander around in this white bullshit.

The feeling was definitely mutual.

Still, it could have been worse. He’d escorted synths through blizzards, well aware of the tracks they were leaving, with the itching feeling that a Courser was barely half a mile behind them. He’d gotten stuck out in the middle of a storm with almost no water, and the very real threat of wandering directly into a Super Mutant camp if he tried going anywhere. Winter was dangerous in the Commonwealth, even to the most prepared, and he knew it wasn’t going to get better over the next few months. But right now, with all the sound muffled, everything burrowed away, and a clear horizon, it was about as pleasant as winter could get.

The company wasn’t bad, either.

They were quiet for the most part, just the occasional warning about particularly rough parts in the pavement or patch of ice. It was a good sort of quiet, though, a companionable one, easy to fall into with the whole world muffled by the snow. If he could have ignored the fact that they were heading for the Glowing Sea, Deacon might have gone so far as to call it a pleasant trip.

The sun would peek out briefly once in awhile, and the glare of it against the snow made Deacon squint even behind the sunglasses. He’d probably end up getting sunburned before the day was done. Another one of the very inconvenient parts of winter; it never felt like the sun was strong enough to do any damage, but Deacon knew he burned more easily than a lot of people. He was used to it by now. It happened every year. 

It still sucked.

Even in more amicable weather, there weren’t many people so far southwest, and for very good reason. They were still a number of miles from where the radiation started to linger, but the scorched earth and dirty water didn’t encourage settlers. Even raiders were wary of setting up a permanent base; any breeze could blow in a rad storm, and the things that crept out of the Sea were much less pleasant to deal with than any groups of people further north.

It was a bit of a surprise, then, to see someone scramble out of the remains of an old building ahead of them, their swearing muffled by a cloth wrapped over their face as they stumbled through the rubble. All three froze the second they spotted each other. Deacon had his hand on his rifle, once again wishing he had a more convenient gun -- probably would’ve been a good idea to keep that damn plasma pistol -- and Nick had his own pistol half-drawn. The scavver was a little less cautious and already had a small pipe rifle out, swinging the muzzle between Deacon and Nick intermittently.

“Who the fuck--” The scavver shook their head sharply and seemed to decide that Nick looked like the bigger threat, leveling the rifle on him. “Fuckin’ Institute, I got nothin’ for ya!”

“I’m not Institute,” Nick said immediately, his free hand lifting even as the right one stayed on his gun. “I’m from Diamond City, the detective--”

“Like hell you are!” they cut in sharply. “Heard it all with you assholes, like I’m gonna belive some damn synth.”

The sound of the rifle’s bolt being pulled back had Deacon swinging his own gun around, and he saw Nick’s pistol rise from the corner of his eye.

_ Damn jumpy scavvers. _

“We’re not looking for trouble, buddy,” Deacon said curtly. “Just wanna make it through the day, same as you.”

“Then back the  _ fuck  _ up!” the scavver snapped.

A sudden  _ crack  _ made Deacon flinch, instinctively expecting the burning pain of a bullet wound. It took him a second to realize that the round had hit the dirt a few feet in front of him, and he’d indeed taken half a step back.

Nick held his ground, hands as steady as ever. He did, admittedly, look intimidating, yellow eyes glowing under the brim of his hat, metal hand reflecting what little sunlight there was. His coat was even billowing a little in the breeze, and Deacon was glad he had a very valid reason not to stare.

“Take it easy,” Nick growled. “You really think two against one is a smart choice, even if one of us weren’t made of metal?”

The scavver laughed, loud and harsh. “I’ll take my chances -- not about to get snatched up and replaced with one of you creepy sons-a--”

“Pretty sure they have better options than you,” Deacon interrupted. “We’re going around, alright? Don’t need to waste any more ammo this close to the Sea.”

That much, at least, looked like it got through. There wasn’t any acknowledgement, but there weren’t any more threats, either. After a long hesitation, Nick lifted one hand off of his gun slowly. It didn’t get him shot, and Deacon managed not to jump   when a cautious hand touched his arm.

“We’re going around,” Nick repeated. “You’ve got nothing we want. Let’s all walk away alive, huh?”

Deacon let Nick push the rifle down a few inches. The scavver was still staring them down, but it looked like their finger was off the trigger -- hard to tell with the thick gloves.

“If I get shot in the back,” Deacon muttered quietly, “I’m billing the agency.”

Nick just gently tugged his arm in response. They didn’t turn their backs on the scavver, and no bullets started flying, so by the time they’d gotten off the road and behind enough cover for Deacon to let out a breath, he figured it could’ve gone worse.

“Your jobs always go this smoothly?” he asked, glancing back once more as he hefted the rifle onto his shoulder. “Hell, maybe next time we’ll go to get a dead drop and somehow end up with six Coursers on our tails.”

Nick snorted quietly, scratching the back of his neck. “Think the universe might just be trying to make up for the last real case, when I had to get pulled out of a hole in the ground.”

“Well, let’s hope. I wouldn’t want--”

The  _ crack  _ of a gunshot cut him off, and Deacon barely registered that he’d moved until he was crouching behind a half-crumbled wall. It took him a second longer to notice the hand on his shoulder; Nick pulled it back a second later, his eyes narrowed toward the main road.

A second, quieter gunshot answered the first. Probably a pistol. Different people.

“Looks like our friend found someone else to piss off,” Nick muttered after a moment, and Deacon grunted in agreement.

It was easy to ignore the quick volley of shots after that. If it wasn’t aimed at either of them, it was background noise, and all the more incentive to get out of the area quickly. Being off the road meant having to walk through a little more snow, but they opted for that over running into whoever was having a small firefight to the left.

Once the area went quiet again, Deacon’s grip on his weapon loosened a bit. They had to skirt around a few larger puddles before getting back on the road, and lack of bugs around them was a nice change.

The ice starting to form on the surface of the water, slightly less so.

“So,” Deacon said after a while, “you think that other poor sap was another, less charming, Institute spy? Because, man, really not that guy’s day if it was.”

Nick shrugged, returning his pistol to its holster and tugging his coat back around it. “Somehow I doubt it. Just seemed like the type to see Institute everywhere. This mug,” he waved a hand at his face absently, “sure as hell didn’t help. It’s generally not an encouraging one for a lot of folks.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Deacon noted. “I’ve gotten pretty fond of it.”

He kept his eyes forward when Nick looked over with a raised eyebrow. Dammit. He really had to start paying more attention to what he was saying. Deacon felt he could blame the cold.

“You’re hard to lose in a crowd,” he added after a moment.

Nick scoffed, looking away again, but there was something of a smile in his quiet, “Bullshit.”

It didn’t feel worth arguing.

It did feel worth pretending it hadn’t happened.

“So how you figure we’re gonna find this guy?” Deacon changed the subject quickly. “That Rami kid didn’t even know his name -- I know we’ve got some free time, but I don’t think it’s enough to wander around the Sea until we trip over his welcome mat.”

“He’s the head of a less than savory trading ring,” Nick said. “Might even be the biggest ring that’s cropped up around here in years. We’re not about to stumble across anything.”

Deacon nodded concedingly. “Alright, fair. So what, find some ferals and see if they can tell us about the scary nameless fence in the neighborhood?”

“Raiders have their territories.” Nick nodded in the general direction they were walking. “We’re a couple of unknowns walking right into his. Trust me, he’ll find us.”

That was encouraging. Accurate, but it also felt more likely that meant getting picked off by a sniper long before finding anything useful. Not that that wasn’t a risk walking anywhere in the ‘Wealth, but purposefully dealing with raiders didn’t help the odds. Not for the first time, Deacon wondered just how the hell he’d gotten mixed up with people who did this sort of thing.

“Speaking of names,” Nick started, and Deacon cut him off with an exaggerated groan.

“C’mon,” he protested, “we’ve got that bet going; doesn’t seem fair that you can keep trying to poke holes in this carefully crafted persona in the meantime.”

Nick snorted, shoving at Deacon’s shoulder lightly. Deacon pulled a face to keep himself from grinning.

“There wasn’t anything about holding off on the usual system,” Nick reminded him. “Should’ve specified.”

Deacon sighed heavily, making sure his eye roll was as obvious as possible. “Devil’s in the details, eh, Valentine?”

“Sure as hell is.” Nick paused, considering it for a few seconds. “Edward?”

“Nope.”

“Tom?”

Deacon laughed briefly. “There already is a Tom, remember?”

Nick shrugged. “So, what, there aren’t two people with the same name anywhere in Boston? Anyway, that’s what he goes by. No telling if that’s actually his name or not.”

“Fair enough; you’re learning.” Deacon shook his head. “Still a strike.”

It looked like Nick was putting some real thought into it for a few moments. For whatever reason, he was a lot more dedicated to the whole thing than Deacon had expected. Under different circumstances, Deacon might’ve been tempted to take pity on him after long enough and just give the whole thing up.

“Edgar?”

Very different circumstances.

“Nope.” Deacon did let himself grin a little then, his shoulders rolling to stop a shiver before it started. “No such luck. Clock resets in...I dunno, twelve hours.”

Nick scoffed again. “Twelve seems like a hell of a long time when all we’re doing is walking.”

“Well like I’ve said, I can’t make it too easy on ya.”

“I’d hardly say this counts as easy; you could at least give me a letter to work with.”

Deacon reached over to pat Nick’s arm consolingly. “Now now, that would take all the fun out of things. You  _ could  _ just give it up.”

Nick glanced down, looking unexpectedly determined for half a second before the yellow eyes were back on the horizon. “Like hell I could.”

_ Don’t look into it. _

_ Nothing to see anyway. _

Shit, it’d be nice if he were as good at convincing himself.

* * *

Deacon had to dig through his bag for the leftover Rad-X a few miles later. There were no green motes in the air yet, but the back of his neck had started prickling in a way that had become too familiar for his liking.

Rami had said the edge of the Sea. Not so far that regular raiders couldn’t come in to trade without needing to buy their weight in chems, which hopefully meant there wouldn’t be any need to be tied to a drip for long after this business was done with.

Of course, radiation wasn’t the only fun part about being this close to the point of impact.

“Have I mentioned!” Deacon yelled over the snarling of the ghoul he shoved back with his rifle’s stock, “Just how much I fucking  _ hate  _ the Sea?”

He heard Nick laugh from somewhere behind him, and of course he’d be laughing right now, of course he  _ could  _ still laugh when they had ghouls crawling all over them. Deacon made a pointed effort not to think about that in the middle of a fight.

The  _ crack _ of the pistol a second later made his ears ring.

That was a damn loud gun. He supposed Nick didn’t need to worry about damaging ear drums or anything. It seemed a little unfair.

There weren’t many ghouls -- it had started with just the one that had been shot down easily, but the noise had drawn out three others from where they’d been hiding under an old car. Certainly not the worst threat the wasteland could throw at them, but ghouls near the Sea were always just a little hardier, a little faster, than ones that weren’t constantly soaking in higher levels of radiation.

Nick had taken down the one. Deacon kept backing up, trying to get enough distance that his rifle would be effective as more than just a bat. The ghoul coming after him had the remnants of body armor protecting most of its center mass, and that made things a lot more complicated than they had any right to be.

He couldn’t keep an eye on his footing. Deacon’s gun flew out of his hands when both arms splayed out to try and keep his head from hitting one of the chunks of concrete he’d tripped over.

The ghoul, as determined as it had been in this particular lunge, ended up tripping over Deacon a split second later, sprawling out on the ground a few feet away. It would’ve been a lot funnier if Deacon hadn’t been the one trying to scramble to his feet first and get his damn gun --

There was another loud  _ crack _ , and Deacon was suddenly very aware of blood running down his face.

At least, this time around, it wasn’t his.

The glasses kept any of it from getting in his eyes, but Deacon was still squinting instinctively when he looked up in time to see Nick stop in front of him and stick out a hand. The ghoul lay almost exactly where it had fallen, just without most of its head, and the third one was slumped over a piece of concrete, as still as the others.

Deacon managed an out-of-breath laugh as he let Nick pull him to his feet.

“You are the most  _ dramatic  _ sonuvabitch I have ever met,” Deacon noted cheerfully. “We gotta get you some kind of catch phrase for when you swoop in like that.”

Nick scoffed. “Think I’ve already got one -- something along the lines of ‘stop trying to get yourself killed, you moron.’”

“Eh,” Deacon shook his head, “doesn’t roll off the tongue very easily. You might wanna consider revisions.”

“Sure. I’ll get right on that.” Nick stuck his pistol back in its holster and rummaged through his pockets for a few seconds, then pulled out a rag that looked almost clean, for wasteland standards. “Hold still, before this crap dries.”

Deacon didn’t see it coming in time to move away from the first swipe of the rag across his face, but he did duck under the second with a laugh. This one didn’t sound nearly as casual as the last one had.

“I can get it,” he said, “quit fussing.”

“You wanna risk missing some and letting radioactive blood sit on your face all day?” Nick asked, and, when Deacon hesitated, nodded briskly. “Thought not. Hold still.”

Deacon had to make sure to keep his eyes to the side. There was still the unnerving feeling that Nick could see them even through the sunglasses. He was surprised he wasn’t asked to take them off; Nick just worked around them, wiping blood away from spots Deacon hadn’t noticed it hit.

He appreciated the effort. He also didn’t like to think about just how close Nick ended up being a few times to manage it.

Deacon took half a step back the moment Nick did, turning away so he could pull off his glasses and wipe them off on the hem of his shirt.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said when he’d pushed them back on. “I don’t want to find out if that weird regeneration they have works  _ that _ well.”

Nick just nodded, folding up the rag and sticking it back in his pocket. That was good, they didn’t need to have a conversation about that; Deacon was already trying to focus on literally anything else, because they had a  _ job  _ to do, dammit. Not like it was a job he was particularly keen on doing in the first place, but at least it gave him something else to think about.

He  _ definitely _ had something else to think about when the sound of a shotgun being cocked preceded him suddenly staring down the double barrels.

The man holding it had been surprisingly well camouflaged -- or hell, maybe he’d been using a Stealth Boy the whole time -- because Deacon was positive he hadn’t seen anyone behind that particular pile of rubble a moment ago. His own rifle was still hanging down behind his back, and this guy had a much better gun than the shitty pipe rifle the scavver had been sporting.

“Who’re you running with?” the man called. “Don’t imagine you’re out here for the scenery.”

“Not running with anyone,” Nick replied immediately. “We’re looking for someone -- your boss, I assume?”

The confidence seemed to throw the newcomer off for a moment. His surprise didn’t last long, though, and the shotgun stayed steady as he came around the rubble towards them.

“We weren’t expecting any visitors,” he said.

“New customers,” Deacon cut in, flashing a quick grin. “Heard you guys are the best in the area. Wouldn’t wanna deal with anyone else.”

“Get a lot of customers.” The sentry’s expression was still suspicious, and leather armor creaked under shifting weight. “Not a lot of synths.”

There was a lot less contempt in his tone than most people used. Deacon found himself respecting the guy a little more for it already.

Nick just shrugged casually. “Not a lot of synths like me to begin with. Figure you’re either gonna have your buddy up there shoot us, or you’re gonna take us in, so might as well pick one or the other before we all freeze to the ground.”

There was another moment of hesitation. Then the man nodded briskly, turning a little and giving a wide wave over his head. Deacon looked up in time to see another figure drop down from where they had been perched on a half-intact roof and resisted the urge to curse; he was the one who was always paranoid about snipers, it figured that he’d miss the first one to actually be a threat in weeks.

“Come on, then,” the man said, jerking his head to the south. “The boss always likes meeting new people. Yazmin!” His voice rose and the sniper nodded once. “Run ahead, tell Stahley we’ve got company. Name’s Ramsay,” he added, his partner hopping down to the ground and taking off ahead of them. “Normally folks get a much bigger welcome party, but...well, let’s face it, boys, you aren’t exactly well-armed.”

“Money’s a bit tight,” Nick said. His posture was still cautious, but he followed Ramsay without hesitation, and Deacon had no choice but to do the same. “Can’t say you’re what we were expecting from people who do their dealings with raiders.”

“We  _ deal _ with raiders,” Ramsay told him. “Doesn’t mean we  _ are  _ raiders. Just some humble businessmen, trying to get by.”

Deacon didn’t bother holding back a snort. “Not too humble, from what I’ve heard.”

Ramsay just shrugged, propping his gun up on one shoulder casually. “Well, Stahley’s good at what he does. Brought a hell of a lot of experience to the table.”

The whole thing felt very oddly casual. It wasn’t something Deacon would have expected from raiders -- or, rather, people who dealt with raiders -- and it was putting him on edge. He shot Nick a look, but Nick suddenly seemed focused on something else, his brow furrowed the way it did when he was trying to remember something.

“This boss of yours,” Nick spoke up after a moment, “he a ghoul?”

Ramsay glanced back, a little surprised, and then shrugged. “Yeah, he is. Never lost a single customer because of it, so if you’re gonna --”

“No, no, that’s not a…” Nick shook his head, frowning at the cloudy horizon. “Pre-war?”

The way Ramsay stared at him was answer enough, and Nick swore under his breath. When Deacon gave him a questioning look, he just shook his head, waving them on.

It only took about ten minutes of walking for Deacon to start noticing the extra defenses. They blended in well with the landscape, and he might’ve missed them entirely if he hadn’t known to look. There were a few spots where the snow had gathered a little higher, and in such perfect circles, that he could only assume landmines. A few old bushes stood a little straighter than they should, which probably meant there were tripwires strung tight between them.

The rubble that had been recognizable as buildings was gone, replaced with rocks and torn up earth. There were a few chunks of wood stuck in crevices that likely acted as sniper nests, and very little cover for anyone trying not to get shot. He didn’t see a single guard on the perimeter, but Deacon had no doubt that if they tried anything, there’d be at least a dozen people on them in a second.

The bunker itself looked tiny. It was surrounded by rusted chain-link fence, and a tall flagpole standing crooked on the roof said that it had probably been military before the bombs fell. There were still no guards, though a spotlight on one corner of the roof was functional, sweeping back and forth across the churned-up snow.

A stronger breeze from the west brought the tang of radiation, and Deacon wondered if they could have any sort of guard at all that didn’t consist entirely of ghouls.

Ramsay reached the door first and rapped out an odd pattern with one hand. He scratched at a spot on his neck, just below the armor, before his hand fell. If the rippling, distorted skin Deacon could see creeping toward his ear  was anything to go by, the ghoul theory wasn’t far off.

The door swung open, and there were immediately at least six guns leveled at them. Ramsay nodded inside, and the door shutting behind them once all three were in sounded a little too final for Deacon’s liking.

It had definitely been a military bunker; there were old green trunks along the walls, and all of the doors were made of steel. The electricity worked, which was a little surprising, and just being out of the wind made it immediately warmer. Deacon took stock of the place instinctively -- the guards along the walls, the doors leading to the rest of the bunker, and one trapdoor tucked away in a corner.

Nick hadn’t looked away from the ghoul sitting at the desk, who it felt safe to assume was Stahley. He had a clean-pressed suit on, something that made the whole thing feel that much stranger, and was regarding them with the air of a sort of uninterested necessity.

“Have to admit, I’m a little surprised to see you here,” Nick said, an unexpected bite to his voice. “Thought Henry had finally taken you in -- but I assume none of  _ those  _ charges stuck either, huh?”

The ghoul’s eyes narrowed for a second as his guards glanced at each other curiously. Then there was a sudden dawning realization, followed immediately by a wide sneer.

“Nicholas,” Stahley said shortly.

Nick inclined his head even as his eyes narrowed even further, and replied with no shortage of disgust,

“Nicholas.”

Deacon felt a little better seeing that no one else in the room seemed to understand what was going on, either. He glanced between the pair now staring each other down silently before giving in and asking-

“You two...know each other?””

“Well,  _ this  _ face,” Stahley said as he pushed himself to his feet, “not so much. Though I suppose you could say the same for me, eh, Nicky?”

“Nick knew him,” the man in question grumbled, “back before the bombs. Business wasn’t any more savory back then than it is now.”

Stahley’s laugh was hoarse and gravelly. He waved a hand back toward his guards, and Deacon let himself breathe a little easier when their weapons all lowered.

“Business is business, right? Always gonna have someone gunnin’ for ya, no matter which side of the fence you’re on.” Black eyes raked over Nick quickly, and Stahley nodded once. “So, I’m pretty obvious, but what the fuck happened to you? They finally decide that attitude of yours deserved a more fitting case?”

Nick shook his head sharply. “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t come all the way to this hell-hole to catch up on the last two hundred years.”

Deacon was pretty certain he’d never seen Nick this blatantly  _ aggravated  _ before -- and after dealing with the Brotherhood, that was saying something. He was instantly  **extremely** curious about what kind of history the old Nick had with this guy to bring out this much animosity, even two centuries later, but also felt pretty confident he shouldn’t be the one to ask.

“Ah, this place is great.” Stahley came out from behind the desk, striding over to the door and swinging it open. The combined bite of cold and radiation made a few of the guards flinch, and Deacon saw the sniper from earlier -- Yazmin, Ramsay had called her -- shiver quickly. “Plenty of scenery, and no one fucks with a guy half a step away from the Sea. And, of course, if they do…”

“You just take a stroll outside and heal, right?” Nick guessed.

Stahley shot a grin over his shoulder, and even for a ghoul, it didn’t come close to meeting his eyes. “Like I said, great place.”

He let one more chilled breeze into the room before shutting the door again and moving to stand in front of Nick. They were almost the same height, which was strange to see, but most pre-war ghouls did usually end up a lot taller than the average waster, and Nick towered over almost everyone. Stahley considered him carefully for a few moments. Nick returned the look with a glower of his own.

“Guess it shouldn’t surprise me,” Stahley finally said. “Figures that if any of my past was gonna come back to haunt me, it’d be you. So what,” he raised what used to be an eyebrow, “you set up a court specifically to try getting whatever ridiculous charges you can come up with to stick?”

Nick was seething now -- that was the only word Deacon could find that fit, but he wouldn’t have been too surprised if he started to see literal steam. Stahley, for all his cheerful tone, didn’t really seem any happier about the situation; his eyes were cold above that smirk and he didn’t look any more ready to back down than Nick did.

“We both know those charges were legitimate,” Nick growled, “ _every_ _single time_. Just because you knew how to get off on technicalities --”

“Sure,” Stahley waved him off, turning around again and going back to stand by his desk. “You left it up to the courts, and the courts decided I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Nick snorted. “Nothing I could  _ prove _ , you mean.”

One corner of the Ghoul’s mouth twitched upward. “Sounds like a personal problem, detective.”

Deacon unconsciously glanced over at Ramsay, looking to the one other face he vaguely knew in the hopes that he wasn’t the only one lost. Ramsay caught the look and shrugged briefly, but he looked as entertained as he did confused. The rest of the guards were following the conversation with varying levels of wariness, but Ramsay seemed almost delighted.

“Well, come on,” Stahley said suddenly, clapping his hands together. “You hiked all the way out here, might as well get the grand tour. Hayse?” He glanced behind him and Ramsay nodded sharply. “Get everyone back on dinner party, then come on down.”

“Sir, you sure you don’t want me --” Ramsay cut off when black eyes snapped back over to him.

“Ah, you worry too much.” The grin still looked colder than it had any right to, and Stahley crossed the room to the trapdoor Deacon had noticed when they first came in. “Just a conversation between old friends, right, Nick?”

Nick glared at him a few seconds longer. Almost all of the malice vanished when he looked over at Deacon, one eyebrow raised in question.

Deacon shrugged one shoulder, taking the lead to head across the room himself. “Doesn’t seem like we’ve got much of a choice,” he muttered as he passed Nick, and the sigh he got in response was both frustrated and resigned.

Nick followed anyway.

Stahley led the way down the narrow ladder, and Deacon was glad he could see the floor before swinging over the edge. A switch on the wall made the lights buzz to life. Deacon had to pause at the foot of the ladder, staring into the expansive room for a few seconds before Nick beat him to his own reaction.

“Holy  _ shit _ …”

The basement had been set up for supplies, that much was obvious; there were rows of sturdy shelves and old trunks lining the walls, but whatever had been in there originally was long gone.

Instead, Stahley had an arsenal.

It was clear he’d been at this operation for far longer than the Brotherhood knew. This was certainly not just loot from local farms, though there was plenty of that as well. He had dozens of high-powered rifles, combat shotguns, even what looked like a missile launcher on the top of one shelf.

Stahley turned, arms swinging out to the sides. “Just like old times, eh, Valentine? Though if I remember correctly, you never officially saw that stash back on Broadway.”

Nick’s scowl was back immediately. “I  _ saw  _ it just fine. We just couldn’t use a damn thing because someone screwed up the warrants.”

“Ah, that’s right.” Stahley laughed again shortly. “All those damn technicalities. Either way, it wasn’t like you could figure out a way to tie me to that shit in the first place.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t yours.”

The ghoul shrugged. “Of course it was mine. So was that little operation you tagged Modoro’s men for, come to think of it.That was another one of those...the fuck you guys call it, poisoned apples or something?”

“Fruit of the poisoned tree,” Nick ground out.

Stahley snorted. “Right, that was it. But it’s like you said, you didn’t come all the way out here to reminisce.” The grin was gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, venomous look as he folded his arms. “So, what do you want?”

Nick hesitated a little then, still eying the rows of weapons. After a moment he shrugged as well, yellow eyes turning to meet the pitch black ones. “We came for you, incidentally.”

“Yeah, no shit.” The ghoul was still glaring daggers through Nick. “But you were always one of the smart ones, Nicky; you wouldn’t assume you’d be able to come in here with one guy and have either of you live through the night.”

“With your goon squad up there, of course not.” Nick glanced back at the sound of the trapdoor swinging shut and watched Ramsay slide down the ladder to the floor. “I assume the ‘dinner party’ you mentioned is an arrangement to kill anyone who comes up without you.”

Stahley tilted his head concedingly. “Like I said, one of the smart ones. So it’s not a hit job -- not that you’d take one anyway, with that bleeding heart of yours.”

“The Brotherhood wants you,” Nick said shortly.

Ramsay stiffened in the corner he’d posted himself in, but Stahley just raised what should have been an eyebrow.

“The bastards in their zepplin?” His eyes seemed to roll. “Of course they do. Pretty sure they think if they get their hands on enough tech, they’ll finally find something that’ll remove the sticks from their asses.”

“Oh, no,” Nick told him with the very beginnings of a smirk, “they just want you dead. Sent me to get a name and address.”

Stahley watched him for a few seconds and then snorted. “Brilliant planning on their part. And who’s your silent friend here, anyway? Looks a little too intact to be another face from the old days.”

“He’s a scribe,” Nick answered easily, and Deacon felt his posture straighten just a little automatically to fit the words. “You think they trust a synth to do this job without supervision?”

Deacon nodded curtly when Stahley turned to scrutinize him. “Scribe Mathers,” he clarified. “I told them they should’ve sent a Knight, but then, gathering information  _ is  _ of part of the job description.”

“Don’t exactly look the part,” Stahley noted.

“Like you would’ve let us through the door if I was in full uniform?” Deacon scoffed, adjusting his rifle’s strap on his shoulder and ignoring the way it made Ramsay’s hand twitch toward a large sheathe on his hip. “We’ve got a little more sense than that.”

The ghoul didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t seem to think it was worth the energy to prod further.

“Alright, so what’s the plan here?” He glanced between Nick and Deacon quickly. “Obviously you’re not about to kill me, you wouldn’t make it three steps to the door. But killing you two, that seems pretty damn easy.”

Nick shook his head, metal fingers tapping seemingly absently against the grip of his pistol. “You don’t want to do that.”

“And why’s that?” Stahley asked, eyes narrowing. “See, I’ve got a pretty damn good gig here, and I’m not exactly much for sentimentality.”

“Same reason I found you in the first place,” Nick retorted. “I’ve got a lot of friends in a lot of places, and enough folks know exactly who I came looking for. People tend to look the other way buying from guys like you, but if word gets around that you took out Diamond City’s only detective? You’re gonna lose any half-reputable customers you’ve got.”

The basement went quiet. Stahley wasn’t even trying to feign cheerfulness anymore, expression hard and eyes as cold as the weather outside. The calculating look he’d adopted was, at least, better in that he wasn’t trying to hide anything.

“Doesn’t answer my question,” he finally stated coolly. “What’s the plan?”

Nick folded his arms, and he would’ve looked casual, if it weren’t for the distinctively rigid shoulders. “The way I see it,” he replied just as easily, “the Brotherhood’s gonna find you, whether you kill us or not. If you do, that just means you’re not gonna have any good business in the area anyway.” He met Stahley’s eyes again, both men boring holes through each other’s skulls. “I’d consider this a warning,” Nick went on, “and make sure to note that you’re  _ real  _ lucky I somehow hate those bastards more than I do you.”

There was something dangerous in Stahley’s expression now, and it made Deacon realize abruptly just how this guy had managed to head up the biggest raider trading ring in the Commonwealth, why guys like Cage were actively afraid of him.

Hell, he  _ really  _ hoped Nick knew what he was doing.

“You threatening me, Valentine?” Stahley asked. His overall tone was casual. The underlying venom was impossible to miss.

Nick scoffed, shaking his head. “ _ I’m _ not. I’m giving you a head start. I, personally, don’t want to get nuked into next week, so I’m going to give them what they’re paying me for. The way I figure it though…” He raised his hands nonchalantly. “It’s gonna take us a couple of days to get back, especially with this weather. Not my fault if you happened to skip town before they can send anyone out here.”

“What,” Ramsay spoke up from his corner, “you saying we can’t take a couple of assholes in armor?”

“A couple, sure,” Nick agreed with a quick shrug, “but how about a dozen, or a vertibird just dropping a few missiles on you? There’s a reason the Brotherhood’s lasted this long, and somehow I doubt they’re gonna be overthrown by a fence.”

Ramsay pulled a face, but he didn’t argue, turning back to Stahley, who was still staring Nick down.

When the silence stretched out, Nick shrugged again. “Do what you want, but it’s like you said, I am one of the smart ones. I hear Texas is a pretty lucrative area these days.”

Stahley didn’t blink. He did suddenly brush past them toward the ladder, climbing back up to the ground floor deftly. By the time the other three managed to follow, he was muttering something to one of the guards and looking distinctly pissed off.

“Like hell you’re Brotherhood,” he glared over his shoulder at Deacon, “but somehow I doubt Valentine would be very happy if I shot you anyway.”

Nick glanced at Deacon himself, both eyebrows rising quickly as he turned away again. “Don’t suppose I would be.”

“Still got half a mind to kill both of you,” Stahley said matter-of-factly. “Losing business won’t matter if I’m a few states away, and I don’t know who the fuck this guy,” he jabbed a withered finger at Deacon, “even is.”

Deacon supposed that was a good thing.

Didn’t make him feel any better about it.

“But you’re not gonna do that,” Nick said after a short pause.

Stahley shot him a withering glare. “No, I’m not, because I’ve got too much shit to deal with right now without having to get...motor oil out of my suit. Now,” he took two steps to the door, yanking it open with something of the old insincere grin back, “do me a favor and get the fuck out of my sight, huh?”

There was only a short hesitation before Deacon and Nick exchanged a quick look and an almost simultaneous shrug.

Deacon was still half expecting someone to decide to start shooting anyway, but they got out the door without any issue. Nick gave a quick wave over his shoulder.

“Always good to see you, Nicholas,” he called back.

“Hope you step on a fuckin’ landmine, Nicholas,” Stahley returned.

The metal door slammed shut, leaving them in the periodic gusts of wind and the quiet sounds of branches shifting. Deacon glanced back toward the bunker automatically, trying to determine if they had the means to set up someone like Yazmin without him noticing, but a metal hand between his shoulders got him moving back into the ruins.

“Am I hallucinating more than usual lately,” Deacon muttered after a minute, “or did that actually work?”

Nick shook his head, and his hand dropping back to his side was the only thing that made Deacon realize it had stayed on his back longer than he’d thought.

“Worked well enough for our purposes,” Nick said. “Stahley’s arrogant, but he’s not stupid. My guess is they’ll have cleared that place out by the end of tomorrow.”

Deacon shrugged. “Well, like you said, not our fault. If that Rhys guy wants to follow him across the country, by all means.”

Nick snorted. It was quiet for a little while then, most of their focus on sticking to what was left of the trail through the snow they had made coming in. Deacon was pretty confident he could avoid the traps now that he knew they were around, but it was a hell of a lot easier to trust in a route that had already proven safe.

“Yeah,” Nick said suddenly, “I knew him. Or, y’know, Nick did.”

Deacon glanced up at him for a second before looking pointedly back at the ground. “Seemed like there was a bit of history there. Didn’t exactly part on good terms?”

Nick laughed, shaking his head again. “You could say that. All those memories are...y’know, it’s been a hell of a long time. Usually it’s just bits and pieces, nothing too substantial, but  _ Stahley _ ...he left an impression.”

“I guess you did, too,” Deacon pointed out, “if he remembered that much after two hundred years.”

“Yeah, well Nick was nothing if not a pain in his ass, he made sure of that. Must’ve arrested him a dozen times or more, always legitimately, but…” His eyes looked a little distant, but Nick pulled a face a second later. “Never managed to get anything to stick on the son of a bitch. Bad paperwork or a rookie mistake…”

“Or poisoned apples?” Deacon interjected, and that got Nick to laugh again.

“Yeah, those damn things. The whole damn system was corrupt by then, though. Even if they had managed to get him to trial, it wouldn’t have done any good.” Something in Nick’s expression hardened for a split second, but it was gone so quickly that Deacon wasn’t even sure he’d seen it in the first place. “Saw a lot of men a hell of a lot worse than Stahley walk.”

Deacon snorted. “Always hear of the pre-war era as some paradise of clean water and brightly colored families that smile way too much. You telllin’ me I’ve been lied to all this time?”

“Well, I guess the lack of radiation in everything was a plus, and the bugs were a lot smaller, but overall,” Nick shot him a sardonic grin, “it  _ really _ sucked. Unless you’re a fan of the constant threat of total annihilation, watching government sanctioned executions on live television, and then being reminded to report your neighbors if you think they might be communists.”

“Sounds cheerful.”

“Oh, definitely.” Nick pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, and Deacon had his own lighter out by the time Nick’s search turned up empty and he’d held out his free hand. “It wasn’t  _ all  _ bad, of course. Nothing’s ever all bad. A lot of people these days just want to see it for a hell of a lot better than it was.”

The words came out before Deacon could stop them; “Do you miss it?”

The snow made the resulting quiet even heavier. Deacon had to push down the immediate panic, because  _ dammit _ he was usually the one who thought everything through before speaking, he didn’t blurt things out like that.

“At first, yeah,” Nick said eventually, his expression a little distant as he turned the cigarette between his fingers. “Kind of to be expected, with the change that sudden. These days…” He glanced down at Deacon for a moment, and his smile was soft. “Like I said, nothing’s ever all bad. There are definitely good parts today, too.”

Deacon made sure to keep his eyes forward as much as possible, taking the lighter when it was handed back to him silently and making sure his expression was neutral.

_ Don’t look into it. _

_ Nothing to see. _

“I guess Stahley wasn’t one of those, huh?” Deacon finally asked, and there was an odd sort of relief when Nick snorted.

“Like I said, he’s  _ real  _ lucky I’ve got more current problems with the Brotherhood.”

The weather stayed mostly bearable through the rest of the day. It was still colder than Deacon would like, but his general hatred for winter made that inevitable, and he figured it was about time to get resigned to it. He’d have to get some better clothes from headquarters, provided they hadn’t all been snagged already.

Maybe Preston’s generosity would extend to a decent coat.

It was still slower going with the layer of snow that was continually getting deeper. Not that they were in a major rush -- Tinker had said a week, which gave them another five days to kill before they needed to get back to Mercer. Not much to do between that, except…

_ Shit _ .

“We’ve gotta talk to Rhys again, don’t we?” Deacon muttered.

Nick glanced back at him with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk. “I’d assumed that was obvious.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to believe it.” It made sense that they’d have to finish the information-gathering job by delivering the information. It didn’t make the prospect suck any less. “Y’know, I don’t  _ actively  _ hate many people, but that guy…”

“He’s got his views,” Nick said, “just like everyone else.” When Deacon gave him a disbelieving look, he shrugged. “And yeah, his suck. I’m happy to take their money and avoid them from here on out.”

Deacon scoffed. “You might want to pretend to be a little less competent, then. Do one good job, and they’re going to keep trying to hire you for anything too menial for their Knights to take care of.”

“I’m not about to risk my reputation for those assholes,” Nick told him firmly. “Took long enough to build that up in the first place.” He paused, considered it for a moment, and then added, “Not to say I won’t turn down anything else they try throwing at me. Got some more pressing matters to focus on.”

“Like breaking into the Institute?”

“Yeah, that sorta takes priority.”

They made it back into the somewhat more stable ruins before the light had fully gone. There was an immediate drop in temperature when the sun set, and Deacon had to make a point of not shivering. He knew Nick would get paranoid about it, because apparently he  _ always  _ did, and Deacon still wasn’t really sure how to deal with that.

The first intact house already had a fire burning low in one corner. The second had at least two people in it, according to what Nick could somehow hear from nearly a block away. It wasn’t surprising, everyone would be holing up to avoid the snow, but it was certainly inconvenient when the wind was starting to pick up and send thicker flurries right into Deacon’s face.

He really hated snow.

It took another twenty minutes or so to somehow find a place with four whole walls, a working door, and no squatters. It looked like it had been an old storefront of some kind; there was another door inside that had been boarded up, probably leading to the next space over, but in this particular section of the building, almost everything except the counter had been scrapped already.

About half of the counter quickly followed suit, getting broken up into small enough pieces to be used as firewood. Deacon had a dinner consisting of a chunk of smoked meat, after only a little nagging on Nick’s part, and found the most comfortable stretch of floor that was still close enough to get heat from the fire.

There was still a consistent paranoia that things had gone too well, that it was going to come back and kick their ass thoroughly soon, but the cold always wore him out. It was surprisingly easy to get to sleep with the combined sounds of the fire, the wind, and Nick taking apart his gun by the door.

Deacon still woke up a few times -- once when a couple of footsteps went by on the street outside, and then again when Nick came over and draped his coat over Deacon’s shoulders. There was a very pointed effort to pretend not to have woken up for the latter.

There was an equally pointed effort to be nonchalant when he handed it back in the morning.

Deacon was still blinking the sleep from his eyes as he checked over his gun in the dim light, trying to ignore the sound of the wind and the prospect of walking in it. He barely noticed Nick push the door open a few inches until the sudden cold and Nick’s muffled curse hit him at the same time.

“What’s up?” Deacon called.

Nick stepped back from the door enough to wave vaguely outside. “Winter decided to come with a vengeance.”

Deacon frowned, crossing the room in a few strides. He spent a few seconds trying to squint through the glare on the snow before realizing that it wasn’t glare at all.

It was just a whiteout blizzard.

Well.

_ Fuck _ .

Deacon said as much out loud, sticking his head a little further out the door as if the storm might be contained to just a few feet around them. It didn’t happen to work out that way, and he ducked back in, shaking the snow that had already accumulated off of his shoulders.

Of course the weather would get this shitty now, he’d  _ known  _ things had been going too well the whole time, and this had just been waiting to spring on them until they were less than half a day away from Diamond City.

Nick pulled the door shut again as Deacon paced away, rubbing a hand over his face. The wind hadn’t sounded that bad from inside, but visibility had dropped to nearly nothing, and that was a potential death sentence to anyone stuck out in the middle of it. Seeing five feet ahead was kind of important in a place crawling with rats the size of dogs.

Which, obviously, meant…

“We’re not goin’ anywhere in that,” Nick said.

Deacon rolled his eyes, leaning against the far wall and letting his head tip back. “Yeah, I’d noticed.”

“Shouldn’t be too bad. Storms usually blow themselves out pretty quick this early in the season.” There were still coals glowing where the fire had been, and Nick put a few smaller pieces of wood on top of them. “Not like we’re in a rush.”

“I’m still not a fan of being stuck somewhere with this little defense,” Deacon pointed out. “Even with the walls, there’s practically no cover here.”

Nick glanced up at him with an incredulous smirk. “And who would be moronic enough to try something in this weather?”

He did have a point. As usual.

“Never know.” Deacon turned his rifle over for lack of anything better to do with his hands, scratching a few of the splatters of dried mud off the stock. “Some people get real ambitious.”

“Well,” Nick said lightly, “I think we’ll manage.”

Deacon sighed, leaning the gun against the wall. It wasn’t like he could do anything to change the weather, and it definitely wasn’t about to get much warmer for a while. He knelt by the coals himself, pulling an empty cigarette box out of one pocket and shredding it enough to get a flame started.

He felt he’d read enough of the books Drummer brought into HQ to know that this was not a situation he wanted to be in. There were certainly far worse people to be stuck in a blizzard with, but at the moment it definitely seemed like this was the  _ worst _ option, if only for the sake of Deacon’s sanity.

Nick sat down with a grunt, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it on one of the coals at the edge of the fire. Seemed like having a hand impervious to any sort of pain came in handy on occasion.

“So,” Nick started after he’d taken a long drag of smoke, “Caleb?”

Deacon let himself hesitate a moment before sinking onto the floor himself. “Nope.”

“Alan?”

“Afraid not.”

“Dennis?”

Deacon feigned shock, a hand going over his heart. “Ah, crap, you got it!”

Nick’s eyes narrowed, but he laughed shortly a second later. “That’s bullshit.”

“Oh yeah,” Deacon agreed, “but I totally had you going for a second there.”

“You did not.”

“C’mon, Nick, even the best detectives get fooled once in awhile.”

Nick just snorted, reaching over to punch Deacon’s arm lightly.

_ Getting too close. _

“And even the best liars get called out,” Nick told him.

_ Don’t encourage this. _

But they were stuck in an empty building in the middle of a blizzard. What the hell else was he supposed to do?

Nick pulled a deck of cards out of his bag after a little while, which was a huge relief. Deacon knew he was getting restless already, but at least most card games required a little bit of focus. He had to teach Nick how to play Caravan -- a complicated endeavor, since Deacon had learned it second-hand from caravan dealers, who seemed to have a tenuous knowledge of the rules at best. He might have made a few of the finer details up on the spot, but Nick had only heard the name before, so it felt forgivable.

Deacon did notice that Nick was slightly less accurate when spotting his lies when it came to cards. Not that it made things make any more sense on that front, but it was a little satisfying.

According to Nick’s timekeeping -- having no visible sun to check -- it was around three when they started having to keep the fire low to conserve the wood. Not that it wasn’t already cold, but it was only going to get a lot colder when the sun set.

Nick had offered his coat twice already. Deacon had done his best to keep his tone light when he turned it down, hoping his own jacket hid how tense his shoulders were as he sat back against the wooden wall.

There weren’t any decent distractions with this damn storm. Deacon had cleaned his rifle at least three different times and sorted through his bag as if there was enough in it to warrant sorting. He had to resist the urge to check the door constantly, as if the weather might somehow be different than what he could hear whistling outside.

He could be patient in practice; he knew how to sit in one spot for hours at a time, watching one tiny area for any changes. Sniping took a lot of patience.

Didn’t mean he had to like it.

Deacon didn’t even realize he’d been staring at the ceiling until the view was suddenly blocked by a bundle of white paper. He blinked hard once, twisting his head to squint up at Nick.

“You still need to eat,” Nick told him, dropping the bundle in his lap before sliding down the wall to sit to Deacon’s left. “Storm doesn’t change that much, at least.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “You worry too much.”

“Would you have thought of it otherwise?”

Probably not. Not that he had to say as much out loud. Deacon pulled an overdramatic grimace, but he unwrapped the meat anyway.

“It’s past six,” Nick said after a moment. “Definitely too late to go anywhere, even if the snow does let up.”

Deacon sighed, tearing a chunk of the meat off and inspecting it carefully. “Figures. At least we’re not in a rush.”

Nick hummed in agreement. “Not that I’d put it past Tom to finish early, from what I’ve seen, but I’m sure this thing’s gonna blow out quick.”

“You’re optimism for the apocalyptic wasteland is impressive.” Deacon gave into the inevitability of eating whether he felt hungry or not, making a mental note to definitely get some noodles the next time he was near Diamond City. There had been way too much meat lately. “I call like, twenty caps of the profit from this for lunch.”

“Twenty?” Nick shot him a look that Deacon couldn’t quite catch before he’d looked away again. “I was thinking something more like half of it.”

Deacon was a little proud of himself for managing not to choke on that particular piece of jerky, and he stared over at Nick incredulously. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Nick shrugged quickly. “We’re partners on this one, aren’t we?”

“I’m an extra gun,” Deacon pointed out. “Not exactly the detective type, I’m just backup.”

“Don’t see how that’s not important out here.” There was that tone that said he wasn’t about to accept any arguments on the matter. It was getting to be a little too recognizable these days. “Look, I’m not hurting; there’s enough to pay Ellie, there’s enough for the bills. Besides, something tells me this synth-saving business isn’t exactly lucrative.”

“It’s more of a communal trading thing,” Deacon said immediately. “Y’know, grow out of something, hand it down to the little siblings.”

“You’re gonna take the damn caps,” Nick cut in, “and you’re gonna get a decent jacket with some of them.”

Well, when he put it like that, it sounded reasonable.

“Anyway,” Nick added, glancing over with a raised eyebrow, “not sure you should sell yourself short with the detective thing. You said you knew about that cryo Vault before Carly even came out of it.”

Deacon considered that for a second before he waved a hand dismissively. “That was just luck, found a few references to it in terminals we already needed.”

More he’d noticed shipment information to that Vault for chemicals that hinted toward cryo. Looked into any Vault-Tec terminal for mention of the project being terminated. Dug into a few more to find a map that included 111’s location. Staked the place out for a lot longer than had probably been reasonable.

He felt his shrug was convincing. “Even we get lucky once in awhile.”

Nick scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Apparently not.

Deacon shot him a half-hearted glare. “Any chance I can expand on rule three to include just not calling out any lies?”

“None at all.” Nick leaned forward enough to stir what little fire there was, and Deacon could see him glancing at the leftover wood skeptically.

They’d already torn up the rest of the counter that could be burned, and that hadn’t done a hell of a lot. It was already pretty obvious that even keeping the flames as low as they were wouldn’t let the wood last through the entire night.

Deacon wasn’t worried -- they were sheltered enough that it wasn’t an immediate threat as long as he paid attention to how cold it was. Might be a sleepless night, might be a lot of pacing, but it was survivable.

It would still definitely suck. A lot.

“I did appreciate the backup, though,” Nick said after a minute. “And not just because Ellie would’ve killed me herself if I’d gone alone. We did pretty good out there.”

Deacon kept his eyes on the dried meat in his hand, taking longer than entirely necessary to finish the current bite.

_ Getting too close. _

“We did,” he agreed, ignoring the part of him that kept trying to insist on how bad of an idea this was. “Shockingly so. No offense or anything,” he added, shooting Nick a grin, “but like I said, our jobs  _ never  _ go this well.”

“Well.” Nick waited until Deacon looked over fully to shrug. It didn’t look as nonchalant as he probably intended it to be. “You ever need a breather, you know where to find me. Drop by and help track down Hawthorne’s missing cats or something. That usually takes a full day.”

Deacon was very grateful for the sunglasses, because he couldn’t quite stop his eyes from widening for a second before he looked back at his hands again.

_ Don’t look into it. _

Shit, he  _ really  _ hated this damn storm.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” At least his tone stayed light. Not that it should be a problem to begin with.

Finishing the jerky suddenly seemed like a lot more effort than it was worth. Deacon wrapped the rest up, tossing it back by his bag. His arms folded automatically and the motion seemed to trigger a quick shiver before he could stop it.

And, of course, Nick noticed.

“Would you just take the damn coat?” he asked.

Deacon was already shaking his head, trying to make his muscles seem as relaxed as he could.

“I’m good. Fire’s fine.”

“It won’t be in a few hours,” Nick argued. “Gonna be a long enough night as it is without you being awake for all of it.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “It’s not  _ that  _ bad. I’ve survived winters around here before.”

Nick snorted. “Yeah, and you’ve also survived getting backhanded by a Deathclaw. Doesn’t mean you should go around trying to do it again.”

The silence was heavy around the crackling of the fire for a few seconds, because apparently Deacon was prepared for almost every kind of conversation except this one. That just managed to make it all the more frustrating.

Nick gave a heavy sigh. “Deacon.” That got Deacon to look around, and Nick lifted his hands questioningly. “It’s just a coat.”

Dammit, why’d he have to sound so reasonable?

Deacon let himself stay stubborn for a few extra seconds, just to prove a point -- though what point, he wasn’t sure -- before huffing out a sigh of his own. “Fine.”

It was as warm as it had been two nights ago, and he did his best to ignore the fact that he had that point of reference to begin with. Tried to ignore how it was immediately easier to get his shoulders to relax. Tried to ignore a whole lot.

Nick stood to put another chunk of wood onto the fire and then went over to the door. It looked like it took some effort to push it open, and after a longer-than-expected silence, Deacon pushed himself to his feet to follow.

He tried to ignore just how long the damn coat was on him.

It wasn’t very effective.

Nick was leaning against the wall, looking through the door that was barely cracked. Deacon had some comment about trying to heat the whole Commonwealth fully prepared before he saw through the door himself.

The wind was still blowing some, with the occasional gust to send the fresher snow into the air for a few seconds, but it seemed to have stopped falling for the moment. At least a foot or so had gathered on the road, and now that it had mostly stilled, the whole area had that odd glow that came with snowfalls at night.

It took Deacon a few moments to realize that the glowing yellow eyes were on him, and he made a point of not reacting. It felt safe to attribute the quick shiver to the cold breeze.

“Not too bad for an apocalyptic wasteland, huh?” Nick noted eventually.

Deacon scoffed, giving a conceding shrug. “Well, I never said it was all bad, just that you had too much faith in it.”

“I did, incidentally, did turn out to be right.” 

The door scraped over harder-packed snow when he pulled it shut. Nick turned again, going back to the fire and adjusting the pieces of wood that were starting to smolder instead of burn. Deacon let himself roll his eyes before he returned to his place on the wall, rubbing his hands together instinctively to get back the warmth that had been lost with that brief exposure to the cold.

It wasn’t late, but the fact that it was dark combined with having walked to and from the Sea in a day made sleeping seem like an excellent idea. It might have been slightly more comfortable lying down, but Deacon had always been able to sleep well enough sitting up, and it gave him a good view of the door on the opposite wall. Not that they wouldn’t get warning if someone came by, not with Nick’s hearing, but the paranoia was still hard to kick.

His eyes were closed by the time Nick sat back down next to him. If it was a little closer than before, it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

The last coherent thought Deacon had before fully falling asleep was that this whole thing was  _ not  _ about to turn into a habit.

* * *

Deacon woke up leaning against Nick’s side, head tipped over to rest on his shoulder.

His eyes didn’t open right away; the fact that it was still quiet and that it was  _ warm _ were the most important things for a moment.

His conscious mind kicked in a few seconds later and abruptly realized how  _ bad  _ of an idea it was.

He was on his feet in another second, straightening his sunglasses before Nick had even looked around.

_ Shit. _

Nick had a small, tattered book in one hand, one Deacon hadn’t even realized he owned. The ash from the fire was cold, long dead, but there were still some pieces of wood piled next to it -- what looked to be about the same amount as when Deacon had gone to sleep.

Which likely meant Nick hadn’t moved all night.

Shit shit  _ shit _ …

“We’re still clear,” Nick said lightly, putting the book into his bag and standing. “Told you not many people are gonna try anything in this weather.”

Deacon stared at him a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before he realized it was an out.

Pretend the sudden panic was just his habit of waking up at every little noise. Pretend it was normal. Maybe pretend he wasn’t still wearing Nick’s coat through all of it.

That was immediately pulled off, and Deacon handed it back with a muttered, “Thanks,” shaking out his arms briskly before he turned his focus to getting his bag together.

At least he could have  _ that  _ much together.

He could feel Nick’s eyes on his back at first, but there weren’t any questions or pointed comments. They were mostly silent packing up, readying the guns, and spreading the ashes around enough that any lingering coals wouldn’t get the chance to set the entire city on fire.

The storm had blown out. There were still some patchy clouds, but a decent amount of sunlight was making it to the ground and turning the layer of snow into a blinding white glare. It gave Deacon a reason to keep his head down, eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of him, and focus on his steps.

The snow was well up his calves in some places. The lack of wind and the sun made it a little warmer than the day before, but he fully expected his feet to be blocks of ice by the time they got anywhere dry. He’d have to get some better boots along with a jacket if this sort of frozen bullshit was going to keep up.

Apparently, he’d have the caps for it.

Eventually their path intersected with that of a caravan from earlier that morning, and being able to walk in the ruts the Brahmin had made proved a lot easier. They stuck to the western edge of Boston, eventually following the traintracks after the caravan had turned toward Diamond City. Deacon recognized Oberland Station as they passed, though nothing but the station tower was visible under the snow.

He could see footprints going to and from the main door at Beantown Brewery, which automatically put him a little on edge, but no one bothered coming out to confront them, and the trek across the river was quiet.

“I know these guys are assholes,” Nick said when the bright orange Brotherhood flags over the police station came into view, “but we’re not here to cause any problems. Just give them the information, get the caps, and everyone can go back to hating each other from a distance.”

Deacon sighed, watching his breath fog out before he gave a conceding shrug. “I’m just the extra gun, remember -- you do the talking, I’ll be in the background.”

“As usual?”

“Hey, play to your strengths, right?”

There were at least ten laser weapons aimed at them as they approached, and Deacon reluctantly followed Nick’s lead, keeping his hands at shoulder-level until a younger looking woman in a uniform covered in pouches came out to meet them.

“Rhys said you might be coming,” she said, and though her quick glance-over of Nick was wary, it didn’t have the same scorn that Deacon had seen in the two Knights from before. “Valentine, right?”

“The one and only,” Nick said, and she nodded.

“I’ve heard of you.” She turned, leading the way through the gate toward the front door. “My team got here before the main force flew in, so we’ve interacted with the locals a little more. I was surprised there were so many good words, given public opinion around here.”

Nick glanced down at her, and his grin was a little bemused. “Well, some people are a little more open-minded than others these days.”

The woman snorted, pushing the door open and waving them in first before following. “Yeah, that’s the surprising part.” She nodded toward the opposite side of the room. “Rhys should be at the desk.”

“Appreciate it, uh…”

“Haylen,” she said, flashing a quick grin. “Scribe Haylen.”

Haylen seemed surprisingly pleasant.

Rhys, as he stepped out from behind the station’s front desk, seemed as much of an asshole as he’d been a few days ago.

“I have to admit,” he said, arms folded across his chest, “I’m a little surprised you came by.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide his slight frown. “Like I told you, I get results. Wasn’t even the toughest case I’ve had this month.”

Rhys let his eyes roll. “I’m sure there are plenty of runaway cats to handle, but this work will make some  _ real  _ change happen. So, I take it you got a name?”

“Better than that; we know where the guy lives.” Nick pulled a scrap piece of paper out of his pocket and reached around Rhys -- much to the other man’s apparent disgust -- to grab a pen. He scribbled a few lines on it and held it out. “Not that pleasant of a place, but I’m sure you boys can handle a little radiation, right?”

It took a few seconds for Rhys to take the paper, and he glanced it over quickly. “Nicholas Stahley? I’d expected a street name of some kind.”

“Guys like Stahley don’t bother.” Nick stuck both hands in his pockets, still managing to look surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing. “Never think they need the anonymity.”

Rhys grunted, folding the paper a few times before putting into a small pouch on his jumpsuit. “I’ll get this to my commander,” he said briskly. “We’ll have a patrol take it from there.”

Nick nodded. When the silence stretched for a couple of seconds, he raised an eyebrow again questioningly. “So are you gonna make me go all the way to that airship of yours for the payment, or would that be too much of a heresy to have a synth set foot on it?”

That got a withering look. Rhys turned on his heel, ducking behind the desk long enough for Nick and Deacon to exchange a weary glance.

“I was also surprised,” Rhys added when he emerged with a small bag, “that you didn’t try accompanying Downing when she came through. Most of our intel says you’ve been traveling together constantly.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Accompanying her where, exactly?”

“To the Prydwen. Apparently she and Garvey had some...complaints about our operations that they wanted to address with Elder Maxson.” Rhys scoffed derisively. “Like some local militia is handling the area better.”

Deacon had to let his eyes close behind his glasses for a few moments. He’d known, logically, that Carly would completely ignore Dez’s orders to rest. He hadn’t anticipated that she’d go so far as to run some kind of diplomatic meeting with the entire damn Brotherhood of Steel.

Of course she would.

And of course they had to deal with Rhys being an ass about it.

Nick had dropped all attempts at looking cordial. When he held out a hand, it was the metal one, and Rhys visibly flinched back from it.

“You’ve got your information,” Nick said cooly, “and I don’t imagine you want me hanging around any more than I want to be here. We’re done.”

There was still a hesitation before Rhys dropped the bag of caps into Nick’s hand. Deacon had started to turn back toward the door, overly aware of the half-dozen sets of eyes on them, when he heard Rhys’s mutter;

“Maybe we won’t scrap you for parts after all.”

It took Deacon half a second to realize he’d turned back around, and his reflexive response didn’t even fully register until his fist was connecting with the other man’s jaw.

Hell if it wasn’t satisfying, though.

Part of his mind noted the immediate shouts, recognizing Nick’s among them. The rest of it had suddenly caught up with the implications of punching a Brotherhood Knight in the face. There was just enough time to consider that it might have been a  _ very bad idea _ before Rhys swung back with all of the extra strength and combat training that came with being a Knight in the first place.

Things went black before Deacon hit the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me was very tempted to wait one more week to post this, because the 28th is the _second anniversary_ of this beast. But also figured it had been long enough.  
>  (it's been a real long time, thank you all _so much_ for your patience)
> 
> My sister did a lovely job editing, especially considering that it's the longest chapter so far. Many props to her. Also even more props to her for Stahley -- I borrowed him for a little while from her.  
> Similarly, Ramsay belongs to [Kayla](http://michiopa.tumblr.com), and he might end up appearing again some day because he is wonderful.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around! You can yell at/with me on my [Tumblr](http://johnandrasjaqobis.tumblr.com). The chapter title playlist has been updated, and you can peruse that [here](https://play.soundsgood.co/playlist/under-cover-of-night-2).  
> also if you all could sign some waiver so that I'm not liable for any deaths, because those are apparently common these days while reading this
> 
> You're all the best!!


End file.
